It kills me when she touches you,
her hands trailing over your shirt, your skin
--her flesh flush against yours--
bare and soft.
It's too much
to see.
How can I possibly watch?
Would that I were...
someone not outside that.

Why don't we have that same intimacy? I wonder.
That casual confidence to touch
in public.
Or at all.
The two of us could be
so close.
Closer than the two of you.
Would that it were...
the two of us I saw as you are now.

But instead of me, she's touching you.
She's hugging you.
Slipping her arms around you.
And it's her lips that bestow
kisses on your crown.
Or, your crown which gets
her kisses.
Would that they were...
my lips instead.

That is to say:
instead of your forehead.
And she and I, the two of us.
And you, rather than myself.

Because it kills me when she touches you,
her hands trailing over you
--her skin dragging across yours--
bare and soft.
It's too much
to take.
How could I possibly watch?
Would that I were
the one beneath her hands.

Why don't I deserve that same intimacy? I wonder.
A casual instinct to touch me
in public.
Or at all.
She and I could be
so close.
Closer than the two of you.
Would that it were
myself and her I saw as you are now.

But instead of touching me, it's you she's on.
It's you she hugs,
slipping her arms around you.
And it's her lips that bestow
kisses on your crown.
Or, your crown which gets
her kisses.
Would that they were
her lips on mine instead.

So yes, I'm jealous.
When you ask me if I mind, I do,
though I've never told you.
And it kills me when she greets you
with a warming hug
and that you're such good friends.
So there she stands,
wrapping her arms around your neck
as she presses herself against your back,
and you just smile at me,
holding your cigarette,
knowing damn well what I want just then:
for whatever odd reason,
it's her hands on me.

05/09/2009

Posted on 05/10/2009
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