I watch her crying from across the room.
Impassive.
The glances I occasionally cast in her direction
appear idly curious, perhaps slightly superior.
No better is expected of me.
I barely know her, and I already have
a well-earned reputation
of indifference.

My every action in this scene is a lie.

My glances across the room
are stolen, furtive things.
My eyes are half-lidded
not in derision
but in an attempt
to hide the intense glare
burning in them.

The tears overflow from her eyes
over small nothings,
spilling down her cheeks, and
I am jealous.
I crave that form of release.
I long to get up and beg her
I need that, give me
your tears because
my tear ducts
have shriveled up and
died
by now.

My posture slumped against the wall
masks the tension pulling at my frame.
I am only looking away
in an effort not to stare openly
for fear of shame.

I do not fear shame in her eyes.
I fear it in his.

His voice
speaks softly in my ear
reminding me of who I once was.
He points out
her weakness
his contempt for it
his contempt for me
for not sharing his opinion.

So I will not betray my fascination
to him. His absence
is the reason for my envy
of her weeping,
but then
so is his presence.

**He does not exist.
His voice whispers from beyond death and
I am going mad.