I could not share you, not even a sliver. Perhaps that makes me selfish; perhaps that makes me wise. I try to imagine you laughing with someone the way you laugh with me, for once truly at peace, and jealousy tightens around my lungs. I try to imagine you cooking dinner for someone else and running into their arms when they walk through the door and my heart constricts. I can share you with friends and family. I can spare you for the hours each day we both have to work. But stand by while a portion of your affection, your body, your love is gifted to another? I would shatter. I would crumble. I may not believe myself worthy of your devotion, but I’m still selfish enough to hoard the candlelight in your eyes and the poetry on your lips. Those are mine. You are mine.