I guess it was a kind of silent forgiveness to myself
In which I felt better about desire for this man
desire, for lack of better words)

It was only time to time I saw him
But each time was like a war in my stomach
A war with no white flag

So to throw this away would be better, (I think)
for all involved
Than to spend another second wondering
what his skin might feel like
on my wanting skin
Or his words
brushed on my ear in a winter morning
Or fantasy...
providing me with the abcense of all things

Just another secondary love story
That feels like home when I see him.


For: R.