Our Sundays

A sweet agony all this is,

with my head thrown aback,

his eyes reinventing me once again.

I'm just here to please his ego

I'm just here for the afterglow.

Belly to belly,

mouth to mouth

resuscitation for his pride.

A sweet agony this all is,

when his hand is at my thigh

I don't worry about their size.

But I'm just here to please his ego

Underneath, but I'm not letting go.

Hips to hips; four, all rotating

skin to skin; his vigor abating.

And I, I…I want to be real.

A sweet agony this all is

I feel his nose at my chest,

and for once, don't feel bad about its smallness.

I just want him to love me.

I want to be loved.

I want there to be love beneath his hands––

between his fingers.

The sun comes out,

the traffic will grow.

This is how I spend my Sundays;

nothing good will come of this show.

I'm just here.

Here, making her feel like someone.

Anyone.

One woman. Human.

Agony, sweet,

She's wrong.

I don't need to feel like a man.

She doesn't understand.

But she could be real.

She could be a woman, true.

One woman, someone new,

any woman,

her own.

But she could be a woman without her legs splayed like this.

But I go ahead; it's she who insists.

Agony, sweet,

She's wrong

I don't need to feel like a man.

She doesn't understand.

I couldn't love her;

My lips against those idiotic lips––

She's got me between her finger tips.

I'll tell her no different, sad humor,

an unfaithful murmur.

I don't need to feel like a man

above her.

I am who I am and

I want her to be her,

Without the veils, minus the sham.

Lying next to her and twirling her loose hair,

my heart beat whispering low.

This is how I spend my Sundays;

nothing good will come of this show.