I get in the sheets with you, and I’d hold you close,

Caress your face and kiss you, as if you were mine.

You’d be there, thrusting, sending me to certain places where I wished you were mine.

But you won’t be there, to you, this is but trivial.

You’d gently kiss my neck and squeeze certain parts of me,

You’d look me in the face but never in my eyes.

You’d be there, thrusting, while your mind wanders elsewhere.

You’d be there with me, between the sheets, between the times twelve and six.

But as the fire dies, sending off its last roar, I’d roll into my side of the bed, and you’d turn to yours.

And we’d still be under the sheets, together, but separated by a tremendous amount of difference.


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