When I try to imagine the woman for whom you’d leave me

there are no pills in sight, no crumpled just-in-case goodbye letters,
no clumps of hair on her desk from far too much worrying for you.

Her friends (and she has them) would describe her as bubbly or bright
but certainly not difficult or temperamental (it’s fine; I’ve made peace).

She can design a mean bouquet. She has a signature dish. She could
even be a model, though her humility prevents this. She has the frame

for it. If she writes poetry (though unlikely) she’d never write a poem
titled “When I try to imagine the woman for whom you’d leave me.”

She sticks to nature. Childhood. The simplicity of her love for you.
She’s a damn good writer and she doesn’t need an ounce of trauma

to write things you’d read. In my head, I see green eyes and fair skin
and confidence that never borders on cocky. But I do not see sadness.

I do not see the variety that my body, awkward and uncouth, emits.
I could recognize it anywhere. But not in her, your Aphrodite, holy

human cathedral. She talks about the past. She has no mean streak.
Even I would pray to her. I would consecrate myself at her shrine

for having everything I cannot call my own. When I try to imagine
the woman for whom you’d leave me I see someone even I would

accidentally love. Her easy poetry and femininity and lack of grief.
Her way with flowers and food and loving you without killing you.

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