His thoughts awoke him in the night
And sleep would not return.
The hours slowly passed for him while I lay dreaming.
Hormones teeming—or maybe out of boredom—
He reached over and touched my naked body.
It was a pleasant way to waken
Until sleep was further shaken
By my alarm
Alerting me to his impeccable timing….
Anxiety in me climbing
For I could not remain,
And yet I could not move…
Not while he caressed me.
His touch seemed to arrest me.
I couldn’t let him sense the intense
Bitterness that boiled within.
I dared not recoil
But at the same time I could not respond.
Maybe someday I can stop pretending….
I liked his soft attending
But was not the least aroused.
I share his bed
But I am dead to him.
The memory of the pain—
Those times when his touch
Was not so tender—
Refuses to fade.
“Fake it ‘til you make it,” the counselor advised
Two hundred ninety-five moons ago….
At this point I don’t think
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