PAD #4: Cycles

Cycles

Chris beat Rihanna on a warm February night.
I heard his new song this gray April day,
and danced in spite of myself.
Now she sings about whips and chains,
her voice all black and blue.
He cried this summer, couldn't sing,
"Man in the Mirror," and I remember
hoping he saw her face every time
he looked in one.

Miles hit Cecily too. That doesn't stop me
from listening to Sketches of Spain,
or Kind of Blue, or letting the downy notes of
Well You Needn't waft softly into my ears.
Marvin choked Jan, but I turn to him
to heal me and all my aches.

Dave hurt Rose on the corner of my bed
one stinging April night.  No man
has hit me, but I used to let one's
words bruise the strength right
out of me. Now, I cook for Dave every day,
try to ease the grief creasing his face.
Just because I stopped the cycle
doesn't mean I stop the love.