I look out through the mesh screen
And see a container ship
Filled with gifts and hopes and dreams and steel
Being tugged to sea
A fly lands on my desk
And I swat it
It wriggles in pain
Awaiting the inevitable
Most days
I’m the fly
Maybe tomorrow
I’ll be the ship
Your hips buckle against my face
Demanding more
And I drink you in
Consuming you whole
When I worship you
And you whisper “Oh God”
I’m tempted to tell you
There’s no God in these sheets
Just me.
I liked the way you’d pull my hand under your skirt under restaurant tables,
the way you smelled when you were turned on.
I liked the cheap hotel rooms,
And the empty stairwells.
I liked the old toyota camry,
And the bed crowded with stuffed animals.
Until I didn’t.
Perhaps it was sudden,
Like a switch flicked off.
Or perhaps it was much slower than that,
Eroded away bit by bit with every thrust.
Until it became a chore to keep it up.
Until I had to think of someone else every time we were together.
Until one day, I looked at you
And felt nothing.
