Hunger

It is becoming
nearly impossible
to spend time with you
at your home
with your family
with our friends,
and pretend
that you are not
mine.
I may have to stop
coming for dinner.
Because spending
hours upon hours,
pretending that we are
just friends,
trying not to touch you,
watching her
cook beside you,
fill your plate,
put a taste of food
into your mouth
from her fingers,
casually brush up
against you
as she walks past,
has me
in a constant state of
sad
jealous
angry.
It’s not fun and
it’s not fair.
And yes,
the sneaky stolen moments
when I’m up against the wall
out of sight
while your hands are
on my body and
your tongue is
in my mouth
are delicious moments.
But I want more.
I’m starving
and being fed
tiny juicy morsels
and it’s not enough
to sustain me.
It’s maddening.
She has a feast
laid out before her
that she chooses to
barely touch and
mostly ignore
while I am left
famished
salivating
and longing for
her scrumptious scraps.
I no longer wish to be
the amuse bouche
or the intermezzo
or the touch of
sweetness that
coats your mouth
like a decadent dessert
when the meal is over.
I want to be
the star of the table.
The main course.
The delectable delight
of your breakfast,
lunch and dinner.
I want to be
fully invited to
welcomed at
and satiated by
all the luscious goodness
that you offer
that you are and
that I deserve.