Saturday, September 15, 2012

Friday Night. Saturday Morning.

His aftershave lingers,
Smiles, embraces, sings,
Upon my satin sheets.

I inhale the masculine scent,
Musky, dizzying, sex.
It’s as though he’s still here.

The film runs in my mind,
Repeat, pause, play,
A flashback of desire.

I imagine his hands on me,
Strong, yet, gentle,
Toe-curling arousal.

I remember his skilled tongue,
Licks, tastes, devours,
And I sigh his name out loud.

I recall his fleeting visit,
Disappointment, hurt, pain,
That he couldn’t stay the night.

I think of his wife,
Lucky, married, to him,
And envy stains my face.

I picture his children,
Giggling, siblings, innocence,
And my blood runs a little cold.

I wonder what I am,
Casual, Fridays, Orgasms,
I hoped for so much more.

I wake up,
He’s not mine, together, always,
And he never will be.

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