Secret

It is odd - 

the way I see you everywhere, 

under banister stairs and  

beyond crystal planes of my epilogue. 

We drift between touch and competition, 

a swift look, the 

bird's wing of fateful influence casting 

its shadow past greater fields and 

likely downfall. 

It is too much - 

to have your heart in the 

shape of the Sun, 

my grace beneath your feet and 

in your arms. 

It is evil  

for me to feel this way. 

To long after another when 

He is  

Right 

There. 

I love him endlessly and 

Still  

you sit there, 

taking my tenderness to  

a tedious brink, 

putting your image in 

my elbow. 

Tell me it is not this yearning: 

a crushing fancy, and 

no more. 

He’s watching me, 

loving me from afar, 

and now I don’t know whether 

I can do the same. 

I don’t want you. 

A poetry of nothingness he 

used to 

own.  

I love him. 

I don’t want you.