Perfectly Unmatched

I know I’d look him in the eyes someday&helplessy permit a giggle to escape my lips.
As though his eyes and my mind have shared a personal joke.

I’m sure he’d ask
‘What’s that babe?’
And I’d reply by asking,
‘how?’
Before watching confusion knit his brows together.

He wont understand that he’s just a third party.
A third party to my self interrogation.

How?
did I ever think another’s hand was moulded to match the small of my back.
Or the hands of those that perused my contours ever so thirstily and lovelessly, could hold me as lovingly?

How?
did I convince myself that If only I listened and imagined hard enough that any others heart beat could possibly match mine?

Or that he’d, like the others , find delilah’s lips more inviting?

Or that he won’t be there to catch our daughter when her feet say
“that’s enough for now” as she takes the last of her first steps and her padded bottom begins descent its toward the Persian rug she was conceived on?
And he’d leave her to search for her dad in the arms of vultures just as I thought I had to!

How
could I have imagined that nka,
Nka!
the thief of fairness and bossom firmness would have shifted his gaze to ‘firmer fronts’ and fairer maidens ?

How…

I’d ask him,
‘How?’

Till then I remain perfectly unmatched.

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