Clinging to Curves

She sits in black yoga pants,
A white knit shirt, and
A smile, rising behind the puff of smoke
From her cigarette,
As she trips the phone line fantastic
As she daringly discusses
Everything from phone sex to philosophy
With me
I hear her inhale smoke and the scent of me
From a thousand miles away from my misery

She makes me free
She,
Who loves me in a washable way
Rinsing out my self doubt with
The slap of her wisest words
Across my flawed, battle scarred self
Like a favorite frayed shirt
She can’t throw away
Loving its holes as much as its weave
Loving its wholeness
Even when it isn’t whole

So, I cling to her curves
Not because I need her
To dip my quill in ink
For me
But because she makes me want
To write myself
Into my very own story
Where the ring of a phone
Is start of day.