I wrote a poem

Flicking through the pages of my notebook, I found this poem I wrote a few months ago.

I waited for you even before you told me you were coming.

And you may have known this. I think you did.

I think you saw it written on the back of my neck

or on the right lobe of my brain.

I think you may have accidentally found out in my mouth.

It may have been obvious. I may have even said it.

The fact remains though that you abused it.

And when I looked at you with tired eyes and a resigned

smile,

And when I knew you weren’t really mine

But you belonged to them –

those who are not me, who I could never be.

And when I looked at you,

pleading in silence,

Begging without saying a word,

When the premature lines on my face spelled heartbreak

As clear as the night which promised no stars,

You did nothing and I remained steadfast,

Unsurprised.

I knew it would always be this way:

Me – waiting, watching, wanting

you – passive, uncaring, unloving.

Not mine, of course.

But theirs.

And how could I compete, how can I compare,

When you are not mine, but theirs.