Scraps

There are days where I feel
like everything to you,
and that's part of your charm
I suppose.

Then there are mornings,
most now, actually,
when everything feels like this.

Today I'll be your leftover
your second place.
And that's nowhere for a person to be.

My wife,
just yesterday you were my wife,
and I
your husband.

But every day
I get little scraps of you,
scraps that come dangerously close to the fire,
get burned
then float away
with that amber glow
around their edges,
until they are consumed.

You showed up again -
this time around one in the morning
with a new tattoo,
your first tattoo
as you put it.
No doubt,
it will gather all the attention
you so desperately covet
from the type of men
you so desperately covet it from.

But a thousand times I told you once
and a thousand times I told you again
that I could never be a face in the crowd.

“All my other friends...”
No, I am not all your other friends
and will not accept your scraps,
my love.