Damn my wretched soul.
I wish I could despise you; it might ease the pain a little.
Run. Put your arm around
her slender shoulders and steer her away. You
can't look in my face; that would
mean acknowledgement, a luxury you won't
allow. What are you protecting
her from? Me, or the truth about yourself?
"It's over." You prefer
soft curves to hard, unyielding ridges; sweet
scents and timid caresses to
the thick, spicy aroma of struggle and sweat
and raw, aching need.
Your expression is bland and unreadable
- I'll never know what made you
fly. You don't love me
and never did; I was only a flight of fancy. You
don't miss me, don't even think
about me anymore. Your body doesn't cry
out for my touch. You don't
see my face when you kiss and hold her in your
arms.
A new lover, a new pair of dancing
blue eyes, but it doesn't matter. It's
all the same to you, isn't it?
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