He begs me to open my fist
Just so he can see it
He doesn’t even need to touch it.
He just needs to know it’s there.

I always kiss him with my fist clenched
He feels its rocky tension in each hug
“Open your fist,” he begs.
But I always simply shake my head.

One day, I was moved by the suffering in his eyes
And I opened my fist.
“Where is it?!” He shook me
Like it would fall out my shadow.

I whisper, “I lent it to someone who never returned it.
I have none left to give you. I’m sorry but I can’t love you.”