This poem is not about her small heart and how it beat against my chest,
A steady stuttering rhythm,
Th-thump th-thump th-thump.
This poem is not about her small hands and how they cradled my chest,
As if to call me back to earth,
Fingertips tracing my ribs.
This poem is not about her hair spread over the pillow
A fan of caramel on white.
This poem is not about her eyes and how they reflected mine with such trust,
Or about how she whispered my name in her sleep,
Or about how I loved her.
This poem is not about how she was a perfect ten,
And wanted me,
The cliché tortured soul.
This poem is about him, somehow.
Because in her,
I saw him.
The trust I wanted from him so fully encompassed me with her.
Her hair in my hand too long to be his, too long to imagine that it was his.
Her hands too small and delicate to be his.
I wanted him to caress my soul the way she tried to,
With whispers and touches,
And fingertips brushing away tears I didn’t know she knew about.
Perhaps this poem is about guilt.
The guilt I felt afterwards, when she whispered my name,
And I wished she was someone else.
The guilt I felt when I wanted to push her away,
With all her kindness and beauty,
Because she was meant to be mine, but not I to her.
The guilt I wished I could wish away,
The way I wished I could write this poem about him
And keep it to myself, because this poem is not for him, but about him.