Jealousy

He must feel blooded with the spirit of a god to sit opposite you and listen, and reply, to your talk, your laughter, your touching, breath-held silences. But what I feel, sitting here and watching you, so stops my heart and binds my tongue that I can't think what I might say to breach the aureole around you there. It's as if someone with flint and stone had sparked a fire that kindled the flesh along my arms and smothered me in its smoke-blind rush. Paler than summer grass, it seems I am already dead, or little short of dying.