My fingers are aching.
They have stretched out to you
pleading, trembling,
needing your touch-
and you have taken the lips
that should have brushed my cheek
and instead whispered into
someone else's ear
that they are beautiful,
they are special,
they are not me.
You don't believe that there's
any issue with loving more than one of us.
Your heart, you say,
is more than big enough to support
that much affection.
But it has never been a question
of your heart, which, believe me,
I already know is strong.
It has always had everything to do
with mine, which falters
and stutters at a tilt of the world
and threatens to break
when you touch her skin.