No Promises

Pandora? Baby, she’s just tired.
She tries to go to sleep at night. She wakes up.
There’s a name her mind keeps treating like a chess board,
finding every way in which their castles can have adjoining real estate.
Alright—so I always try to move the knight as far away as possible,
try to pretend we don’t need protection.
Maybe that’s why I keep losing.

Pandora, her fingers look a lot like everyone’s.
Piano player, no self-tanner,
you know.
She’s not that far removed—Pandora, she paces, 
she pales and she compares and she calls 
his face a firework, a flare, a bright shell blurred beneath a tide pool—
Pandora is a lot like you;
she’s ablaze and a blast and sort of sometimes matter-of-fact,
and look,
every Greek myth has you sitting in the middle of it. 
Every story keeps echoing those eyes.


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