I didn’t love him.
I certainly didn’t, for if I did,
there would be a poem for him.
But I didn’t write a poem for him.

I saw his pouted lips and wondered
How would it feel to kiss them?
But I didn’t have a song for his lips.

On our nights I watched him sleep,
Counting the number of moles on his buttery skin,
Marking them as mine, with my kisses.
I ran my fingers through his hair,
Caressed his ears, his neck, his chin,
His throat and chest and stomach.

But a few lines of poetry didn’t come out
For that thing of beauty, that joy forever.

He didn’t love me.
On our days we walked under the sun
We talked about things and places
We got drunk and silly
We drove around the town
Never were we away from each other
Never even for a moment.

But he never held me.
Didn’t love my body, the way I loved his,
Didn’t look into my eyes and bit my lip,
He didn’t desire me.

And so it was easy to say goodbye.

I never loved him,
Now I don’t desire him,
In my heart I already have him.

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