I watched you laugh with her the way
you used to laugh with me —
head thrown back, throat exposed,
the soft machinery of joy
I thought I'd built.
I smiled. I said the right things.
Underneath, a green thing coiled,
older than language,
the snake that knows
it was here first.
She touched your arm.
You didn't flinch.
I catalogued the angle,
the pressure,
how long before you pulled away.
You didn't.
This is the math of hunger:
what you give to her
subtracts from me.
I know it isn't true.
I count anyway.
At night I hold the ledger up to light,
looking for the entry
where I lost you —
as if love were a sum,
as if I'd ever had you,
as if anyone can own a laugh.
The snake says: yes you can.
The snake says: she stole it.
The snake is me.
I let it speak.