Veils of Green

It sits quietly at first, 
a shadow just behind my smile, 
watching, waiting, as your world glows in colors 
I’ve never touched. 
It grows in the shadows, 
a quiet hunger nestled beneath my ribs, 
lurking behind polite words, 
as I watch the light you carry so easily, 
spill like honey into every room. 
Your laughter spills out, effortless, 
and I swallow the tight knot in my throat, 
pretending I don't feel its sharp edges. 
I trace the lines of your success, 
the way it fits you like a second skin, 
while mine hangs loose, unfinished, 
still waiting to be woven into something worth showing. 
Each glance I steal feels heavy, 
every accomplishment of yours 
a quiet reminder of the spaces I haven’t filled. 
Your laughter rings out, 
bright as wind chimes in the summer breeze, 
while mine sits tangled in my throat, 
silent and heavy, 
like stones dropped into still water. 
I tell myself it’s admiration, 
but the bitter taste betrays me. 
It’s a quiet kind of hunger, 
an ache that gnaws just below the surface, 
yearning to wear what you wear, 
to walk in shoes that never pinch, 
to carry the light you seem to hold so easily. 
And yet, I smile. 
I smile and nod, 
as if my heart isn’t clawing for a piece of what you have, 
as if the green isn’t creeping up behind my eyes, 
waiting to spill out when no one is looking.