She’s on vacation
I’m jealous,
wondering who she is
with
and wish it was me,
knowing the hates me,
yet I can’t stop
writing all little love poems,
like a 16 year old
kid
whose hormones have just kicked in,
the kind of poems
I should have written her
when I first got with
her,
full of angst and lust,
poems I know she will
never see,
each dripping with my
need not hers,
we—I mean me –
being too selfish to share,
wanting, not giving back,
a spoiled toddler in
a tantrum
when she looks
in any other
direction by mine,
my imagination
painting a scene
with silk sheets and
intense embraces,
even though I know
nothing
of where she went,
let along if she went
with someone,
here in this dusty
alcove,
a Harry Potter without his owl,
waiting for the elf to come
to drop the cake
alone again, naturally.
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