I can feel
it in my fingers,
I can feel it in my chest,
I can feel it in my loins she said as it takes away my breath.
To know him was a pleasure,
But one of ironic angst,
For nobody really knows him anyway.
He came around when he felt like it,
When the tides carried him in.
One day I asked him,
"How many houses like this do you have? How many women like this
do you have?
How many secrets, and how many lies, hang in your closet?"
I saw him cry once,
Outside,
After we made love.
At least that's what he called it.
Finally I saw him as human and nothing more.
My legs were shaking and I thought he ruined me.
For love doesn't feel like that.
The smell lingered for hours-
And I know love doesn't smell like that.
Our love was nothing,
Dried up,
Again and again he lied,
Like another rented room,
With nothing left inside.
