Moving On

I always fall

for women who don’t want me

like a dog chasing cars,

a child chasing shadows.

I write my love poems

for muses and angels,

nonexistent beings,

glass dreams that shatter

when a strong wind comes,

so I need to forget false hope,

learn to be alone,

place my love in my children,

try to build a house

with a concrete foundation,

and though I may never find happiness

in the glow of another’s eyes,

in the comfort of another’s touch,

maybe I can at least be content.

Maybe the storms will end.