He loves to forget everyday action, cartoonish grin fixed, quiver lips daring--He winks. He loves his wife, safe cover, a perversion says nothing except: ______________________________________
If it hurts, swim in text process narrate how he looked at me the preen looping flashing inches of flesh thighs peer Imagine the hem of my dress
I wished for birth of new pain, grease our good time
The married man got mad at me for telling stories his wife, slapped, I should leave, he said I never considered, our friendship so beautifully devoid We are the bad hurt
One night, I look up
#2 (she and she)
His wife, you can trust with a secret away, slipped into silence, just cling seemingly jealous, except we tell our[ ]selves can be a problem OR not-a-problem! … but what if you like to hurt?
Friends avoid seeing a thing experienced
Who I need to be is: not hassle, on my side, everyone has a good time
We owe it to people we love to try not to listen
The outburst looked like ____________________________
We watch the skies lack is all that matters “i love him and he loves me”
(that’s still not enough)
#3 (a poem for me)
He loves mine, me, when I make a good joke, when I’m looking at him. I fantasize. It isn’t a stretch. He loves brushing up against me.
His wife says nothing.
We do the small stuff. It’s no big deal. Except it hurts. How he looked at me, hearty, unconsciously. He pulls up his shirt. My eye is sexualized. My thighs and breasts imagine him. Specific want. Slip up. Kiss me. Full.
I’m calculating the married man. Just the two of us. He told me all about his memories. I am always telling myself. We would have fallen in love, gotten married, had babies.
I love him and he loves me. We’re playing house. He starts to touch. Palm on palm. Skin. Arms. Shoulders. Hip against mine.
He said, Be careful if you and I get any closer.
We’re approaching his wife.
He says, you and I are forever. He says, I love you. He was wrong.