“Sometimes I get angry that your nearly silent sighs were not mine, that it was not my mouth you kissed, that you did not look into my eyes as the waves passed through you. Sometimes I get angry that another gave you pleasure, and woke to you at dawn; that I have not yet seen what another now takes for granted. That I long to hear your voice, while their mind wanders while you speak; that my hand is empty while they do not offer theirs as you walk together; that I hold you this close, having nothing of you, while another, having all of you, does not know what they hold. My anger is not at you, or even them; nor at the world, nor at fate. But at some moment in the past, when the road, spread wide before me, offered left or right, and I, unknowing, chose a way that did not lead me to you. It is hard to love you and not have you, just as it seems to be, for another, hard to love you, although they have you every day. My empty arms want to hold you; my empty mouth wants to taste you; yet you are there, and I am here. We share the same time, but not the same space; and, because of that inescapable truth, sometimes I get angry.”
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