When she is in the room, you say she is beautiful — I know.

I understand why your eyes glisten over the shine on her skin

How your innards twist and come the unusual butterflies you would never admit to

How your tongue gets stuck before your teeth

A tiger yet to be loose, your words

Waiting for a moment to say hello as she slips before you

And when you do, your knees bend and her lips curve into a smile

Her fingers are satin, tangled in your hair

Her face, a Mona Lisa of emotions, at the way your hands traverse her back, her legs.

Her eyes are with golden flecks as she watches

You, running across the field of something I will never be able to accomplish

You, with your voice, poorly humming along to a song I used to sing with someone else

You, with your sly grins at how terribly I lie about how “good” this beer is,

You, with how well you know my flaws, mishaps, and how your hands cover my knuckles as I lose myself in depression

You, with rough hands and rougher days, laughing at my inability to understand your life yet appreciating my sad efforts to try,

You, your dreams and hopes of intellectual ascendancy, adorned with viciously curly hair, and an indecisive yes.

And here I watch,

You, you, and her.

And while I know that at one point, to you, it used to be me, and to you, it is only me,

I can’t help but feel relegated to the back seat of a three-seater car, serving drinks to the a couple in cheer,

Watching a bad movie, a chick-flick of a love triangle of how you, you, fall and fall back in love with a girl I can never be.

While every strand of rationality reminds me to not sit beside her, and measure how her arms are slender, her face petite, her humor snarky, her words poignant,

I cannot help but to bury my face in the dust when I think of her and you. And you.

And how I’ll only be me, beside a beautiful her.

So maybe, I’ll decide to leave the room soon

But today, I’ll bask in the shine that doesn’t belong to me,

High hopes that my dull glow will blind me to be content with what I have, even when beside her.

Show your support

Clapping shows how much you appreciated Juli Ann Sibi’s story.