At four in the morning,
as you release me from your arms
into the limbo on uncertainty and semi-existence,
I begin to feel the weight of reality
closing its pages on my character.
You return to your world,
where I exist unspoken,
or intertwined in lies of your "friend Manny",
or hidden in nicknames like "political woman".
You play your role of husband so well
to another woman I wish I was.
You play your role of father so well,
to children I wish I had birthed.
You play house so well,
in a bed I should share with you,
in a kitchen I should be cooking for you,
in a dimension I should be part of,
but I'm not.
I have no right to bitch,moan, complan, or cry.
I tried out for the lead in this fucked up drama.
From that first forbidden kiss-crossing that line,
to last nite as you made love to me,
your other woman, mistress, bitch,
ho,ho, homewrecker.
But still my womb aches,
empty with envy.
Even if you don't love her.
She gets the privilage of her name being spoken
in my home, in my bed,
where you come
after you leave her asleep and
havd tucked the kiddies in the beds you provide.
My identity has never passed through your beautiful mouth,
as you kiss her the way hers has as you hold me.
You respect her enough not to hurt her,
but you don't love me enough to leave her.
So I wait impatiently across state lines,
hidden in the shadow of your marriage,
prisoner to the pager you gave me,
as if I was the one who needed to be watched.
