To Carry, To Care.

To Carry, To Care

by james bezerra

I often think

on all the other men

you’ve loved,

who I know you loved

less than me,

but with whom you were -

somehow -

endlessly more free.

It is a terrible weight

to carry

to care

about anyone.

Their fingers in your hair

and you kiss their palm

just because

its nearest to your lips.

And what do you whisper to them

in the dark, about me

with a bead of sweat

in the nape of your neck

quivering just a little

when you speak.

I wonder if they’re gentle with you,

or if you ask them not to be.

.

.

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