She’s kissing him.
He grins and touches her leg, right where you used to touch her.
You have to watch as he whispers to her, and she nods slowly.
You have to watch as her shirt falls to the floor.
His pants drop to his heels, and you have to watch her degrade herself.

A flash, perhaps.
She climbs on top of him, and loves, him, and they both enjoy it.
Of course.
The sacred skin you barely dared to touch, he defiles like fast food, or a rest room.
No thought.

**** testosterone.
****.
Love.
**** love.

Can you be jealous of things that have happened?
Envious of a ghost of the past?

Where can you hide when your mind is out to get you?