You've changed.
The scent on the back of your shirt isn't you or me.
It's something I didn't notice before.
Someone, maybe.
I wish I doubted that thought.
We're not always together now, but when we are, we can't speak.
Maybe you're just too busy; maybe I just don't care enough.
We glance at each other, emotionlessly confused.
Your thumb crosses my shoulder.
Your smile is blank.
"Wanna fuck?"
I'm trying not to play detective as each thrust reverberates in my throat.
I don't make a sound.
"What's wrong, baby?"
Something.
YOU ARE READING
Aphrodite
Poetry"There's a blaze of light in every word, it doesn't matter which you heard: the holy or the broken, 'Hallelujah.'"- Leonard Cohen The poems in this series center on two characters: I, the speaker, and You, the speaker's subject. I is not a specific...
