I hate knowing about your past.
Kissing you and knowing she has too,
touching you and watching the gears turn
as you compare –
and knowing I can’t.

I hate seeing her in the hallways,
knowing you’ve cherished that face,
adored that body.
Seeing her and knowing that
she wants you back,
and that you may feel the same.

I hate thinking about you
thinking about her.
Glimpsing memories of her love
in the sheen of your eyes.