I wish I had known that the ring on your finger disappeared when you were with her, that I was just a placeholder in case you never got the chance to hold her again.
I wish I had known the last time we kissed. I would’ve paid more attention to how your closed eyes were painting me into her image. Your hands interweaved through black strands, moving slowly unto pale skin. How you morphed the mountains of my bones into the soft hills of her baby face. How your tongue danced around the fact that I was not her.
I wish I had known the dull in your rainbow eyes were because brown looking glass could never take you to the valleys of her green irises. That I was lightning, a quick spark, something that reminded you of a brighter day when all felt cloudy.
Had I known you never loved me, I wish I could’ve said I’d have walked away, but even the moon shows it’s face sometimes in the light of day: and I’m sure I would’ve loved you that way.