On Jealousy

Here’s the same flint and stone

flame that never seems to

finish, that caustic shame I

always feel but can never

control, that cruel yet

comforting sensation when I

hear that I am not enough —

always whispered in some

permutation each night.

Whistling in that cold, cutting

wind down in Brixton, in the

briskness of passing

strangers at a bar, in all those

aimless walks that led me

nowhere, in a man who says

it’s your problem,

not mine.

Hear it half asleep on that

mauve sofa where I sat

alone all night, hear it

slip past the bedroom door

and unfurl its familiar body,

hear it take a seat beside me

and say that it’s sorry,

as we wait for the flame to

finally burn out.