Sunday Morning

Morning, afternoon and night, my love. This Sunday morning I think of you.
A love silenced, add insult to injury, weakening as each day passes.
An empty bed welcomes me. Only blankets keep me warm.
An empty heart still beats. Sadness is blood, pumping love’s shattered debris through my veins.
It clots in my brain and scars my soul.
Feeling wounded from battle, I curl up with my dog.
I remember Sunday mornings years ago. Years ago when we loved because we loved.
Touched and tickled., explored each other top to bottom and back again, the sun rose as the love rose.
Holding each other like one holds hands when we thought it would be forever and thought we knew what forever was.
We believed in forever then.
Forever is a decade of time.
Forever is now Tuesday morning or Wednesday afternoon and love turned to need and that is a shame.
The shameless lack of affection and pleasure we take part in, nudity and lust and sweat and fluids exchanged
for the sake of need.
I need. You want. You want. I need.
Which of us is more whoreible, my love?
You or me?

Jill
2/13/12