He was thinking of her
when he was inside me.
I saw it—
in the way his eyes glazed,
lit with pleasure
that didn’t belong to me.

There was warmth
in his body,
but coldness
in the truth:
it was me he was *******—
But all his fires burned for her.

I was just
the third body.
a fleeting satisfaction,
he couldn’t bring himself to want.

As Roosevelt said,
“Comparison is the thief of joy.”
Six simple words—
struck something deep,
A truth felt,
But never named.

We measure ourselves
against strangers and friends alike,
whispering,
“I want what they have.”
And just like that,
our joy slips through the cracks.

Comparison breeds envy,
envy turns to bitterness.
“Why them? Why not me?”
we ask,
as if fairness follows longing.

But truth is—
they’re likely looking back at you,
thinking
the *******
same

We sit in the coffee shop—
laughter spilling loud,
hearts full,
like the beans brewed deep in our cups.

For a fleeting moment,
we set the world right,
and nothing exists
beyond us four
and this tiny corner
of time and space.