Priorities

She always leaves when she feels split in two,
Leaves the lights, the music, leaves you, and you
Never seem to understand that she doesn't live within
Your land of whim and dominion.  She can't always
Carry herself reconciled to your demands, sometimes
Her hands don't fit the ring.  All those minions, that
Smoke, all the ale, leave her needing air, tint her skin
Pallid in the artificial light.  Can't you see she's older,
Wiser, doesn't need such superficial scenes to breathe?
So I watch her sit, her quiet self-containment 
Admits that you might just be wrong, you 
Young debonair thing with the long hair.

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