I am not in love with the one person I should be most in love with
We don't speak very often, and when we do, it's with guttural moans and soft cries
Late in the night, she peels away her curtain and stares at me through the mirror
Sometimes in the early hours, the misty golden hours, I pull her through my mouth and set her beside me
We listen to the sun rise, the dew rest, the sky yawn with a hand over its mouth
We sit there until the sky is more blue than pink and then I swallow her joint by joint until she settles into the bend of my ocular bone
I do not love her, though I should
She shifts around my insides and caresses the depths of me, makes me loathe the bits of me I can see, makes me loathe the bits I can't
I feel her in my chest most days, cupping her hands around the valves of my heart, making them ache even if she doesn't mean it
And I can't help but wish she was someone different, someone tougher, meaner, less romantic, someone more like me
But
She whimpers when I cry, she sighs when I curse, she squirms when I get angry with everyone and myself
She is not someone I can love

Though I should