So many, tall and blonde, who are not her.
Cheekbones as sharp, legs longer, lips as full.
Who never find my conversation dull
Amazingly. Wise women might prefer

These pleasant evenings, not involving pain,
these light flirtations going nowhere slow
to games of chess whose rules I do not know
save she might move to hug me once again

or stroke my hand. Tall blondes might do as much.
Mean little less. They’re not part of the game.
One day she’ll pause and smile, hearing my name.
I sometimes think I’ll die feeling her touch.

The nights I see her – well, they’re as they are.
Safe evenings with tall blondes will leave no scar


About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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