but he wanted to be left alone.
She would rather have been with him,
unwelcome, than at such a distance
that she couldn’t smell him,
kiss his mouth.
She tried different combinations
until it seemed he didn’t mind her.
She called him “cold.”
They were young.
There might have been a rhythm to it
that could play out
like any overcoming.
He came up and down her;
it was kind of a downer.
How she did it, year after year–
is she was so beautiful
she just had it to spare.
I would’ve killed to go there.
She chose innocent him.
Sobbing and shadowboxing,
my envy well-sharpened, if slobbery.
“Help me help you,” she’d tell him.
On his bed, he confided discontent.
In his garden, she confessed growing bent
at his not growing delightful.
“We share sorrow,” she suggested.
“Don’t kid yourself,” he said.
“But that’s why I’m here,” she replied,
still playful, ever an eyeful.