Another

Sometimes I wish I could feel
how it feels to you when, over
and over, my conversation turns
to another lover, usually one
particularly, and you say, it is ok,
you desire my happiness, and you
think she is terrific, but I know myself
to be petty sometimes and when she
talks about him my heart clenches;
so, my comfort, my lover,
does yours? Would you tell me?
There is an opaqueness between us
that is my doing, I fear; what was
once a clear window I have scratched
and abraded thoughtlessly, unaware
of what I did to your heart;
can I become a better man,
one who polishes away the cloudiness
instead of smearing the glass even more?

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