You are not me, but you were.
Now, your strides find the dark hour of confidence
and the secret that men fear.
Your body discovers a sexual music
and dances alone with itself
in the abandoned salt
and the wreckage of love.
And I have lost the bow to the cello
I once hid in the silent arch of your waist.
Giant and impossible,
you are beyond my small measure of need.
Your loosened hunger
burns the perimeters of my sadness,
because you are not me.
Free of me, you have become
a hurt aimed at my night.
You flirt with other men,
I burn in the pit of my poetry.