"I'm happy you found someone,"
she wispers - and she means it.
I nod. I love my ***. But still,
my stomach burns with regret.

I can’t ask her to come back -
what I did forbids...
But God, a touch would make me crack,
just one more brush of h'r fingertips.

Her lips - so soft, so slim, so red -
I picture them on mine.
Then others join, and just like that,
the moment slips in time.

I’m not hers. She won’t be mine again.
Maybe that's how it goes.
Maybe we’re better off like this.
Maybe we're better apart with partners,
than as partners growing apart.