I find her eyes to be discomfiting. They strip me of my defenses faster than I can build them, and I wonder how you can stand it.
I have not eaten today, and we’ve been here hours. I am shaking with it, hunger and fear, because I cannot eat under her gaze.
Old fears rise and under her eyes I am only who I am.
Fat, bumbling, clumsy. I cannot pretend; I will choke.
So my food sits untouched, and we still talk and talk, and God help me, she will have to dismiss me
because I am pinned.
We talk about you. Of course we do, I am the past, she is your future.
I have been here so many times, on one side, then the other. Other woman, discarded past, playing every part in this re-run drama. I feel old, and want to go.
Instead we talk, and she takes every word from me. Helplessly I scoop my soul out and spread it on the table for her.
Your plans are so delicate. A finely woven web of crystal, built on want and this curious rosy colored ideal.
I see it now, wrapped around her like a blanket, and I want it to work. Not for you, even though I love you, but for her. For her eyes, for her delicate fingers, for her lithe mind, and vulnerable, submissive heart.