I bury the bird in bodies of broads –

scratch that –

I bed down with sophisticated,

beautiful,

sassy or sweet women.

I drown your ghost in other ladies’

laughter,

endlessly laughing,

until the manic chorus puts me off balance –

my head matching my heart and purpose.

I’m not The One –

I’m not even a whole one –

and not everyone gets to be the quarterback.

I don’t need you to feel whole –

your doubt, your sadness and your beautiful love –

but I’ve never felt so unfinished,

or maybe so,

finished.