She has an altar she has set up in her heart
Devoted to me, and in the shrine of it
She keeps candles ever burning to appease,
A light that shines brilliance that she barricades
closing its’ shutters
to open her essence to others.

Every stab in it is one in my gut,
two sloppy slugs lopsiding me constantly,
scabs that can’t be helped but picked at with a pick axe,
garishly engravening it in my recollection:
imagining her genuflection,
erecting a little totem to that other tomcat,
that she burns as pole find hole and unfurls their flaming passion,
shared breaths and sweat and moans that last we heard at home,
in hotel rooms, responses that were solace are of another sort,
an export of sexual satisfaction,
and I’m glad she has them but more devoutly they were with me,
that she did not bar me briefly to see what might be if she smiles and he sparkles,
if she did unfurl at the knee,
if she didn’t close those shutters and let those candles burn bright,
or if she just imagined the sight of the tempest that churns at the learning,
the yearning that something had compelled her to cease.

It makes me feel abandoned, vacant, aching,
it makes me feel forgotten, a cypher, waning,
so I feign that it’s all right when it’s roaring rampant
when I look into her eyes and imagine their encampment
on her face, her breasts, against them her body pressed,
her insistent “yes” as he strokes her to coming,
as she’s holding him, her pussy unto her body humming,
that bliss settling soberly,
her soulful body calmed and numbing wholefully,
her yawning halting and kept briefly from being hungry.


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