In his blurred face
I can only see his eyes,
hooded by a veil of misplaced lust.
I put my hand back into its glove.

He is not the one.

He exits the room,
leaving me with nothing but money, worry, and the tricks of love,
smiling at what he thinks are tears of joy
streaming down my cheeks
but in reality are tears of loneliness,
of a deep profound misery
digging a hole in my heart.

I know I am alone.

Each body I touch seems faceless
And all these urges are wasted
On men who seem nameless
I wonder if it matters if anyone has a name at all,
because with every kiss and touch
the end result is always the same,
and no difference of name
could ever change the emptiness that was there before they came,
before anyone would ever come
back in that kitchen pantry
where my mother and this emptiness came from.