Instead

Sometimes I don’t feel loved enough. I think, 

when was it last she named my virtues to me?

(Or any single one of them?) I ask 

myself, how long’s it been since she reached out 

to touch my face or hair? And why does she

no longer look up from her screen when I

come in or laugh at all the silly things 

I say or cling onto my arm when we 

walk side by side?

 

And then I tell my raging heart, 

be still,

count the years, 

calculate how many mornings, noons

and nights she’s passed with no one else,

consider all those other lives 

she could, if she so chose, have lived instead.