It wasn’t you, it was me—
inexperienced.
You’d had a lifetime with her
it took me years to catch on
I was living with her, too.
It wasn’t you, it was a memory
you told like
any other story, then
licked again and again
like a favourite spoon.
It wasn’t you, it was her:
more seductive than me,
more understanding,
more available.
More, more, more, more, more.
It wasn’t me, it was you.
Asking for something un-givable
though I kept digging for it
scooped myself empty
with your favourite spoon.
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