Glove

When the plastic umbilical cord snapped
I knew I was free,
The ties that bound us severed neatly.
Never again the torment of comparison;
“They’re so alike,” they’d titter.
But he always favoured her,
Thrusting his icy fingers into her dark warmth before mine,
Pulsating, giving her life,
Murmuring “Ah, that’s better,”
Forgetting the relief by my turn;
I’d feel myself stretching to accommodate him,
But there were no such thanks for me,
The novelty had worn off.

The bitter air would smite against my skin,
And the beating rain bled into my own tears,
A constant drip tracing my veins,
Plummeting into the mud.
She would always be sheltered in his pocket,
Or held close to his racing heart,
Hearing his rhythmic pant,
Inhaling the sweetness of his damp breath,
Under the security of an umbrella.

But there was one time,
As the sun’s heat penetrated the wintry air
that he let me caress his brow.
His skin gently grazing mine,
Just for a second.
How I love him.
She never knew,
And later bitterly complained
about sweltering in the clutches of a synthetic companion.

But as the season progressed,
He had no desire for either of us,
Saying ice creams and sand will do us no good.
So we lie in the darkness together
and alone in silence,
Praying for our release.