You are sitting next to him
in his car.  The car isn’t going
anywhere, but you are still
buckled in.  You don’t want to
cry but you are crying and
picking at the calluses on your
fingertips even though you don’t
want to be doing that either.
You want to say that you know
he doesn’t love you anymore
and that you don’t either
even though you turn
each other inside out.
You want to say that you know
what he needs but cannot prove it
because you are selfish and sad.
You know that what he needs is
some polished young thing, but 
you will suffer to see it.
All of these thoughts sit on your
tongue and he is a man of swiftness
and clarity so you can only say
I miss you even though
you are sitting next to him,
in a seatbelt in a parked car.
The words come out sounding
like an apology for your
bitterness, and his shortcomings.
You are still picking at your fingertips,
removing the hardened parts
that you had so perseveringly forged.
You know that your love will not
be enough and that a body cannot be turned
inside out, yet you try and try and try.