Often, in the most central acts of love, I
feel hollowed, absent, as if coolly watching
a third party. And her breasts had an unusual
hang, two imperfectly sized fruits bouncing
while she rode him and moaned, which he
found animalistic, not at all arousing.
This is to say, naked after the fact,
when she rolls over - slick with sweat,
sheets clung to the moisture between her thighs -
my heart screams: You are alive! Maybe not
happy, but Alive! She looks at me with such
affection, but all I feel is that something has not
been made clear. A promise - from whom? - has
not been upheld. And I am bewildered.
Years searching, now here, and I would almost
like to run. Though not quite.