It was almost as if I belonged to you.
Tied up with lace and wrapped in a silk sheet,
I was yours to unfold and use.
And you, with your cold hands,
your distant chest, the resistance in your voice–
I hardly noticed it.
I only ever saw the slope of your body,
the ease of enveloping yourself in bed
with me, without ever having to fold.
I wanted us, so badly, to be real.
So I opened myself.
I let myself be willing
and I wore my heart on my sleeve
as if that was the only thing I knew how to do with you.
But I see it clearly now,
how we were just a figment of my imagination,
more or less.
We were two people, trying to make sense of things,
conflating with silent, tender desires.
More than anything,
we were longing for something.
I no longer think of you the way I used to.
I no longer think about what could have been,
and what sweet that relief that is.