Witnesses

I know what you'd call it.

Jealousy.

Possession.

Something unbecoming.

But I don’t care who she is.

I never did.

Only that she isn’t me.

It isn’t her I imagine—

it’s you.

Your hand buried in someone else’s hair.

Your fingers closing around someone else’s throat,

learning the pressure,

the pause,

as if my body hadn’t already taught you.

Let her have the daylight—

the cafés, the tables,

the version of you that smiles easily

and belongs to witnesses.

I know what you do with your hands in the dark.

I know the man you become

when no one is watching.

My body knows your weight.

My back may arch for it,

but I have never broken beneath it.

Call it jealousy.

Call it whatever makes this easier to swallow.

She may mistake your silence for intimacy.

But, silence has a way

of reminding you

who you belong to.