I still imagine you with someone else, and it still hurts,
my imagination so vivid I might draw it out, where you engage, the sound of you
heard banging against the wall, the moan of a cheap bed in a cheap motel, the
roll over, the other approach, I try to keep up, stroking to the beat of it,
the number of times it takes you and the mysterious other to come around. I
seat over it, trying not to thinking of all the angles, the upside down, the
sideways, the able, the chair as if a tradition bed just won’t satisfy the
need, this time at night after too many drinks, then again in the morning,
where the moaning seems unbearably loud, you, he and me, all arriving at last
at the same time, finally.
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