Thursday, August 19, 2010


I didn’t know the curve of my belly would fit the small of his back.

I didn’t know he would reach for me again and again in the dark of the night.

I didn’t know he wanted someone else, making due with what he had in front of him.

“You want to be loved,” he said, holding my hand across the table.

No response. I’m not good at lying.

“Will you see her again?” I ask.

“Maybe,” he answers. “Maybe.”

How can maybe, cut?

How can maybe, stop breath.

“You want to be loved,” he says.

I want to say "maybe," but words fail. I let silence answer.