Lying quietly,
carefully,
Body rigid, not
touching,
Willing her not to
wake,
Fearing any response
to my body’s warmth,
Selfish solely for
my own sake.
Dreading any physical
contact,
Lest she rouse and
realise
The coldness of my touch,
The acting, the
pantomime,
For this girl I once
wanted so much.
This love thing could
never last,
It just wasn’t meant
to be.
Such a shallow,
sordid affair,
My affections have
wandered,
And I know I no
longer care.
Perhaps she feels
the same way,
Or has picked up the
signals?
Maybe she already
knows,
Of my indifference?
Or somehow my guilt
shows?
Not long till this
is over,
And I can leave this
bed for the last time,
And make my way
across town,
Where a young girl
with blonde hair,
Waits for me to make
her my own.
Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2012
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