He’d never mentioned her before, but then she started showing up more and more and more. A Thursday, a Saturday, a Monday, her invite was planned, mine was a “make it if you can.” I watched his eyes, his mouth, his hands, as he watched her, taken by his newfound love of the moment. She’s just more than me, her hair is strawberry blonde, her skin is smooth and freckled, her eyes green, larger than mine, with thicker, longer lashes. Her lips are full and always pink, hiding a lovely smile. I can’t loathe her, in fact if I let myself, I could love her too, she’s that sweet. She’s what he wants, why not let him have it?

A guitar player, a woman with an incredible voice, a lady who doesn’t say “****,” or have a history of sleeping with too many men. Maybe I should go down, no fight, surrender myself to an imminent defeat. Just let go, before I’m let go of. Cut the cord, break the ties, blow up the bridge, whatever you want to call it. My love can survive, can endure, can be lost, if only for a moment, before it’s found again. His love is fleeing me. He falls easily, and hard, no turning back. His nomad mind pulling him farther and harder than he thinks I can love him. One new love like ours could turn out to be easily found, and easily bought, easily changed and easily lost. I love you “harders,” “more’s” and “mosts” have been replaced by a simple “you too, sweets” or nothing at all. I guess a bit of friendly competition is good, not for the love, or the hurt, or the fear, but for the realization that nothing’s real or permanent. Nothing lasts as long as you hold it, even if your grasp is firm, steady and wanted. Now, who wants to start the friendly competition?