In my twisted imagination, I think she’s slept with some
many lovers, I would need a calculator to keep track of them, while I – a jealous
twit – could fit all my on the inside of a matchbook cover.
I imagine her with everybody I see her with, lovers that are
friends, or colleagues or bosses, or maybe even underlings at random, strangers
in the night who she’d never see again at morning light, some more than once,
some times more than one, men or women, tied up, she, then, front door or back,
upstairs or down, right side up, upside down, inside or our, inspired by her
need to feel it all in every way possible, life being too short not to grab all
she can, in any manner, not always to trickle up, some times just to feel good
in that moment, knowing it won’t last forever, and true or not, I envy her.
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