Everyone else has love
The simple ones, the racist ones,
The women who hate themselves,
The men who keep secrets
They have love
I want to ask them what it’s like
What’s it like to have arms wrapped around your loneliness?
To fall asleep to someone else’s breathing and not to the low, distant murmur of a tv
To be fulfilled by a child’s sweet laugh and not terrified by the emptiness of your own
To look forward to a holiday, to make small talk about spouses, to make dinner for more than one
But I don’t ask them
I just smile and say, “I’m happy for you”
