You told me once that you’ve never loved;
not even the woman you chose as a wife.

Amusing then that when the artifice crumbled
your desperate first words to her were these:

‘I love you’.

Please.

Yet, fuck me, it worked
and back she came crawling.

She doesn’t love you.
She messaged me and said it.
But a life lived in fancy
is more pleasant than truth.

So neither of you really likes the other
but in friendless times I guess you have to make do.

There’ll be dates and there’ll be kisses and all the grand gestures;
and the sweat of the skin and the lick of the tongue.
So the scene you’re directing is another act to your play
but I’ll tell you what I suspect and I hope that I’m right:

That a part of your soul dies

each
time
that
you
fuck
her