by John Duval

I know it was me
You wanted God
to pluck from your bed.
My lowered eyelids
feigning sleep, I watched you,
sitting upright, staring
out the window at the
thought of someone else
or yourself in the
ambivalent drizzle.
I extended my arms to you
not because you loved me
but to assuage
the torture of you
loving nothing but
my merciless constancy.
Don't think it was easy
to pretend. It wasn't.
It was a hard night's work
to lay so close,
the smell of your skin like
only the smell of your skin
etched into my memory.
Well, God, a glass
of amnesia, please.
I wish I were empty, lungs
deflated from the endless
whisperings of love.
It seems I am
not so fortunate.
Again and again,
these are my arms.