Leftover Possession

I will always reach
for your hand and
I will always dig
my fingers through
your hair and my palms
will always rest on the
small of your back
because they are
manifestations of the
way I attempt to
give you comfort.

I just want the next girl
who falls in love with you
to know from the start that
she may walk into a room to
find my legs draped over yours,
but that you’ll definitely be
going home with her with
no argument from me.

That it doesn’t mean a thing.
That it is only a comfort.
That you are no longer mine
any more than I am yours.

Which is totally
and completely
and always.

But only in that place
of leftover possession
that holds me hostage.
This one has been sitting in the queue for awhile and I’m tired of looking at it.


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