Fair has nothing to do with it—
If you want to know why
I fell in love with him, or when,
I’d have to answer that it happened
without intention. Slowly.
I promise it wasn’t your fault, or mine.
It’s just that he was there each time
you weren’t. When you didn’t kiss me
when we passed
in the narrow kitchen, he did.
When you weren’t interested
in my poems, he was.
Always, you left the lid up. He didn’t.
You never wanted to go hiking,
so he met me in the woods.
Even in winter,
he didn’t mind the cold
or the snow or the steep hills.
His hands were warm
in my imagination, which is the only time
I allowed him to touch me—
so don’t be angry, my Love,
if you see him. It isn’t his fault
for being part of my fiction:
this short story which must seem so unfair,
if I didn’t think you were as busy
writing your own.