it's the way he says her name. he loves her. i could narrate their story in a thousand different ways and it's beauty would never settle my envy, it's wonder would never calm my annoyingly persistent expectations that something like that could be mine. love like that is saved for the people who need it, it is not a luxurious pleasure wasted on the 'OK', on the 'I'm Fine', on me. my brain, who is the logical conclusive type, often explains this to me, in a clear and matter-of-fact tone of voice. my heart however, pumping jealousy through it's veins refrains from the big picture and focuses on the details. the way his syllables fly up on the end of her name, the way he listens to her when she speaks, laughs at her jokes when nobody else does, we're too stubborn and envious to laugh , she's always been clever, we wish we could be clever, i wish, i wish i was the only one on the waiting list, on the roster, the only one with something to say, something good enough to listen to, and maybe i am...no, but maybe i could be. fear spikes when i seem to close to letting my ideas out into the open, to let it could destroy my wishes, and i've settled comfortably between maybe and 'you never know'