This is just physical.

It’s cold outside and the windows are fogging. Later we’ll draw dicks with our fingers on the glass. We’ll do this instead of hearts, because this is just physical. We can laugh. We can have fun with this. He doesn’t stay over in my bed – that would create too many questions and he would have no answers. The light hours are hers and the night hours are mine, ours; his and mine.

When he’s gone, I press myself into the softness of the bed, the smell of him still there, but this is just physical. I get the smell and she gets the tangible him. But that’s OK. Every time he leaves the room, I figure it’s the last time. He kisses me on my lips only, never the forehead and never the back or the neck. That’s too loving. That’s not allowed.

I don’t miss him during the day. I don’t wonder about her and I don’t wonder if she wonders about me. This is just physical. Does that mean it could be physical with just anyone? Why me then?


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