At the salsa club

I see
the way you stare at me from
behind your wife's shoulder.

Such a pretty shoulder, so smooth
under the pink shirt she must have
bought to please you,
straps falling down to her mid-arms
as she leans in to kiss you.

Still, you look at me, even though her
luscious lips caress your chin.

What is it about me that makes you
look so intently?
What could possibly entrance your coffee-brown
eyes so much that
you must watch me dance?

One, two, three, four,
twirling, grinding, stepping to the music,
my hips in the hands of men we both call
friends.
Hair pasted to my sweaty face, arms entwined with a partner's,
feet speaking a languange that matches the
pulsing of the music,
hips speaking words I cannot say
yet feel racing through my veins.

I dip, my back arches to the ceiling, my hair
reaches for the floor,
legs wrapped around his waist,
and I see your eyes...

only your coffee eyes.

I do not hear the applause, do not taste
the cranberry and vodka placed in my hands...
I see only your smile.

I see her smile.

While you watch me because you want me,
I watch you
because I miss what you have sitting beside you.

Love.

She loves you, she bears your children,
presses her hips against you while you drift to sleep.
She wears clothes to please you, smiles at the words you
whisper into her ear.
She lives for you, can't you see that? She lives for your
kindness.

I would never be so attentive, because all I would take from
you
would be the color of your eyes, the
brightness of your smile. I would
paste them on my ceiling to remind me when I awake
that there is still desire,
there is such a thing as chemistry,
and to prove that

I am worth something more.

I deserve honest eyes, looking down into my own...
never from behind another woman's shoulder.