The Weekend: Part Two Asante S. King I remember the day you gave yourself to someone else. I could feel it, long before you told me. Compressing whatever devotion, you had for me into a section of your heart with my name on it that was small enough to grasp with three of your fingertips and deposit into my lap as you dispersed the other three quarters of yourself onto another woman. Your time spread thinner than your attention and with this, you began to shrink too. You became slight enough to glide your way under my sheets; and you smelled like her. So you tried to salvage hours of leaving me to go with her, with minutes of you coming on my sheets. I guess you couldn't get that, anywhere else. Which is one reason why my self-esteem isn't completely shot. Rapid bursts of air and moans liberating themselves from the confinement of your lips, landing on my skin told me everything about how you felt for her: 1. You are bored with her. 2. You settled for her, and we both know it. Meanwhile the texture of my pen forced a numbing sensation into my fingertips. The slope of my back glistened as if it were being pursued by the moonlight. The only thing darker than me, was that midnight. And you liked it that way. In contrast, her skin was as amber as the sap of a ripe mango, with green eyes to match. But I was never boring.