It Was His Cologne

The essence of his voice,
Left me with virtually no choice.

He has a sense of humor dubbed as ‘corny,’
I find him to be funny, while others – perhaps a bit ‘thorny.’

The latter is his description,
It’s a lack of self-esteem and that’s my own silly ‘prescription.’

This beautiful soul of a man,
You know . . . I’d snatch him up if I can.

I digress; I know it’s the wrong tense,
But it needs to rhyme . . . Hence,

I’d jump up into his arms with a hug around his neck,
I’d hold on tight, let him squeeze me, hold me right back . . . we’ve talked about it, what the heck.

I wouldn’t want to let go,
I’d have to tell him to talk to me just so “I’d know.”

Isn’t that why all this began in the first place?
God designed the meeting, planned the course, and set the pace.

I understand how life gets cluttered right in front of his face,
All the piles keep growing; he can’t see, breathe or find his own place.

He needs someone to help him, and I’m not always that much better,
Here’s what matters, I’m a counterbalance to him and he to me . . . together we can break the bonds and drop the fetter.

If only he could see his silence is driving me away,
Keep pushing me and pushing me . . . and one day I’ll stay.

I’ve been pushed away for years,
I can’t take the outcome of pain, nor anymore tears.

I don’t argue or play games with life.
Adults make choices, take responsibility, and know who they are . . . have self-respect, drop the pride and reduce the inward strife.

It’s a decision to take my offer of help while my hand is extended,
Answers are clear and concise “yes” or “no” . . . not buy time or waste it – pretended.

Remember his cologne?
I could only smell it over the phone.

By the way, he said he doesn’t wear any cologne.
That’s good because it hurts my cranial bone.

Now, imagine my curtsy, as the curtain slowly comes down;
We’re all looking at that orange button . . . . please, don’t be a clown.

Ta-da . . . . it’s my day job!
How do you get paid? I’m not leaching from your check like a slob!

Imagine this is as my little violin case, as I perform in the breeze. . . .
Would you please . . . . ?