twice as guilty and the only one who cares

I can't write about loving you.

I can't write
about lying against your skin
like drops of syrup
dissolving as one,

the scent
of your cheek
like sweet, rooted earth.

I can't write
about the swell of breath
as you hold me
against the wash of days,

the stench of obligation
dangling from the doorknob,

the alarm clock
beaming through the dark.

I can only write
about the rip of doubt
that glitters, taunting
at the corner of my eye
like a glow under the door

every time I know
you've loved another.