When You Are Making Love to Me
Early mornings are the worst.
A transient time when the deep, dark night starts to fade with the promise of a false dawn.
No wonder the lines become blurred.
Who is making love to me?
The one I love or the one I’m in love with?
Is it fair that when you touch me, kiss me, caress me, all I think of is him?
I know you know and that makes me even more sad.
You love me so much that you’re willing to turn a blind eye to that which looms over us like a shadow.
Now as you move over me, the bristles of your beard leaving tiny scratches on my skin, tears spill from my eyes anew for I once again feel the savage surge of desire.
Alas, it is not for you.
