I could not tell I was cheating.
Cheating did not run in my veins,
Just as plastic, glass, and tampons
don’t belong in the river’s fresh waters.
I believed I was helping him,
a young Blue Jay with a broken wing
and a slowing heart.
I just heeded the impulse
of drying a tear running down his cheek,
the light stroke of my fingers on his skin,
like the touch on the ebony of a new piano,
the dilation of his pupils
when he held my other hand,
my need to kiss the lips
that had whispered, Thank You,
his kiss before letting go of my hand
before leaving Starbucks,
on a sunny Houston winter morning.
I did it again, and again. I should have been careful.
Cheating does not run in my veins.
I wanted to fix my broken wings
and speed up my slowing heart.
I could not tell I’d used his pain
to heal mine.