Sympathy
When I think of her
reaching
through layers of
masculinity
to touch the mirror,
something in me
dies.
When I pull on a dress
with a feminine cut
and see
curves
rising from my chest
falling from my waist
and I think of her
straight as a cedar
tall as a cedar
swathed in fabrics that
flow
and
drape
like the flag of a conquered country,
something in me
dies.
When she touches
every
living
inch
of me with tender, sensual fingers
and I strive to copy her
gently
carefully
but the flesh beneath my fingers
does not rise
does not fall
as mine does
and I can only surrender
to her
hungry
envelopment
of the body she
deserves,
something in me
dies.