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Coffee & Honey Narrative Poem

 What follows is a poem about a negative experience I had being a third for an established couple. I've had other very positive experiences in triad relationships. This one just happened to be bad. 


~


I take honey in my coffee. 

No matter how careful I think I'm being, 

I always get some on my fingertips. 

Oh well. I love to lick it off. 


She is both the honey and the coffee. 

The bitter makes the sweetness sweeter. 

My caution is irrelevant. Each day

she will be who she is, and I will enjoy her. 


~ 


I was crying about something else. Not him. 

"I'm really a delicate creature," I said.

"I can tell…" he said, "I want that…"

So I wrote a poem to his gentleness. 


I wonder, now, if even then there was 

manipulation in the sentiment. Did he think me

easy prey? Did he hear delicate as moldable? 

Could those tender hands intend the harm inflicted? 


Or was the abuse almost accidental? Is toxic

masculinity a sword he's unaware of wielding? 

Does coercion derive from delusions of duty? 

Did he and does he believe himself gentle? 


The result remains regardless. I meant delicate 

like breakable, of course. There is breaking 

in his belittlement. Contempt be deep or 

shallow, I will wade here no longer. 


~ 


She called me Girl of My Own Heart 

and gave me to him in trust. 

She called him Man I Love Most 

and gave him to me in trust. 


How could I honor the giving 

but reject the gift?

How could I appreciate his place 

in her life after [  this  ]? 


~


Once upon a time she described for me 

the way she'd like to wash my hair. 

What is mourning of a missed moment? 

What term describes this empty ache? 


Once upon a time I described for her 

the way a Lover cried with me over past abuse. 

She said, "I am envious of this intimacy."

I said, "I wanna cup it in my hands and pass it to you."


~ 


Coffee and honey. Caution and mess. 

Woman I love. Man I detest. 

She is who she is. She is with who she's with. 

She sees nothing she needs in my friendship. 


The sweetness was sweet. This is the bitter. 

I don't get to be someone who cries with her. 

Or laughs. Or celebrates her victories. 

Or quietly supports her many dreams. 


Because they are an Us, 

and I am just me. 

Because I cannot change 

the way I saw what I've seen. 


Because her explanation of his effort 

is harder to believe 

than the painful honesty of her saying, 

"I think he hates me." 


~


Have you ever had caffeine withdrawal so bad

you barfed? I have. Less than a mile 

from home I had to pull over to puke. 

[   This  ] messed me up like that. 


Coffee and love will do that to you. 

What's your risk tolerance? What's the 

worth of the reward? How high

are your hopes that you'll make it home? 


I wish I could have friendship without 

pining for more closeness. How

awful to be both delicate and 

the one who dives right in. 


My Lovers tell me, "No. 

Don't hate yourself for this. 

Where would any of us be

without your hopefulness?" 

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