The Sleeve

The Sleeve


Today I am wearing that dress you like.

The one that matches the color of your eyes.

I think when you see me wear it,

I remind you of yourself

because you see her:

who you want her to be.


I know this.

That is why I put it on for you

and dance circles around your watchful eyes

waiting for you to kiss me,

to kiss her,

because that is who you love

not me.


Today I am holding the glass of beer

that I spill all over my hands

when I try to talk to you

and tell you how all the pieces fit together

in scientific precision.

You laugh alongside him,

we are comrades in war,

holding each other up,

patting each other’s backs

as we drink ourselves into oblivion.


I think I fucked up

every time I sat down at the table

and offered you my soul

because you just saw the dress

that matched the color of your eyes

when I was also holding that glass

in my other hand.


I don’t blame you.

It is my fault, really.

I keep waiting for you to see

the war that is at stake here.

I search behind the backs of your eyes

to see her there for him

and him for her too.

We could wrap our hands around each other’s

and drink from the other’s glass.


I’d like that.


But you see that dress.

I fear it is all that you see

when I stare into your eyes

and they stare back

unaware we can switch

and you can be me.

We could dance like this forever;

an eye for an eye,

if you know what I mean.