Those sleepless nights when I’ve left the window open,
the chirping crickets, the soundtrack to my thoughts.
I imagine what her soft dancer’s legs must feel like rubbing against yours.
You could never resist sideways glances at
Long, silk smooth legs of passing spring-time women,
you thought I never noticed.
Four a.m. settles in and the breeze dries the tears,
cold against my cheeks.
The picture I have painted is vivid in my mind of
your fingertips traveling along the contours of her back,
goose bumps rising on her skin in response to the
slight pressure of your touch.
It isn’t just my imagination.
I play this game of images not to torture myself,
but to remember why I left.
To remember that night I sat on your bed,
tracing the circular scar on my thigh,
and you, with wicked intentions, you said to me
another girl caught your eye.
Now when I start to miss your lips,
I see them whispering fantasies in her ear,
strings of crimson words trickling down her spine,
your bodies locked together, tangled in the sheets.
And I remember that I do not miss being her,
your mistress veiled behind the curtains.
