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.