Shakespeare calls it
This insanity of suspicion,
of looking elsewhere
at someone else
and think they're taking her
away from me
when in fact,
she's never truly
deeply been mine
in the first place
except in my imagination,
and I'm not alone,
living with this illusion
even as what ever
once was possible
has ceased,
fading away into that limbo
where all such illusions go,
she finding a kinder
set of ears to listen,
hands to touch,
eyes to take her in.
There is no kindness
in the eyes that start out
from such a green face,
and yet, how can I
not crave it,
those brief moments
when her amazing gazes turned
like the beam of a lonely lighthouse
in my direction,
stirring to life feelings
I assumed long lost at sea.
The fact that she
and her ship has sailed
only makes the longing worse,
having lost what I never had.
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