your move.

I keep waiting for the phone to ring

or for a text to ding, 

a prince charming,

some sort of outreach 

or nod of understanding

and think 

"maybe I should be the one 

who makes the first move..."

I go to the bathroom 

look at my knees 

sitting perched 

upon what was once 

a common throne.

I sigh and somehow 

find the nerve or attitude 

to whisper across the tile 

"you've been making the first move for years."

my bald knees 

stare me in the face

in my empty house.

there's no solace.

I stand

flush the toilet

walk back to the kitchen

open the door 

to the fridge 

like everyone does

in the dark and lonely moments that rise

that same sad-sack montage

of common human need and want

spent looking 

for something 

you know for a fact isn't there

in the back of the same damn drawer

you've looked in 

10 times before.