he with the other is she with him.
The other is irrelevant:
her nose brushing his cheeks is my jealousy.
I lie.
You taste her lips, every corner of her mouth,
and you devour her.
You take her through the museum,
the plan I always denied you,
and look at her, there, gazing at the paintings
until their beauty unravels, once hidden from me;
If only I had known how to read them,
the same way you describe her smile,
I’d say you’re falling in love.
I know it well, for once I was yours.
Her woman’s figure, veiled by a dress
though naked in backlight,
is the one that wraps you each night,
the one that senses
your hard cock has a destination,
deep within, so slowly, until she ends
in a whispered “I love you.”
I feel her breasts orbiting my mind;
I curse that mine are no longer the dock
where you slept
—you and your dreams
drowned on them—
after love and the burning collision
of our two bodies.
I can’t find a way to haul gravity back
from them to my curves,
to a world with a name,
nor can I shut out the wayfarers
who will remain strangers
until I learn to un-know you,
completely.
And I beg that her nipples
not be the ones that slide
and crash against your museums.