Ache

You have forgotten
the thing between us.
A separate organ of yours
left unused
since you failed in having it removed.
You have forgotten
the kind of words that were
scattered throughout our sheets.
Stuck in our hair.
Spilling from our mouths.

I see you smile,
your lips marked with denial
of the pressure
trapped behind your teeth.
Trembling tributaries of sweat,
forced from the ache of lust
still trapped in your gut,
worked out upon
someone more in need,
and more sensitive than me.
Imaginary and muscular,
drunk on your knee-bruising acts of
anxious servitude,
allowing you
to maintain your pain.

In privacy
behind your eyes,
you despise the perfect way
I describe your manner.
I despise being thought about
by you
still.
If I had the courage and skill
to alter your heart
without harming you,
I would remove and replace it
without the memory of us
so that you might
falsely ache
for another.