Poem #8

These women are all so kind to me,

Never asking for my heart.

They hold me when I ask them to,

For that moment before they depart.

These tears that creep into my eyes,

Are automatic at this point,

And no reflection on these arms,

As I hide my face and cry.

My offer’s weak, most simply leave,

Without even being told.

And as that door is closed again,

I’m reminded this bed is cold.