She told me that she was "unconventional" in relationships.
She said, "I understand you not wanting a relationship, but wanting companionship."
"Don't say it," I responded.
My hands clammy.
Knuckles white.

When one man leaves, another comes.
It's selfish to wipe tears from your eyes,
when you still haven't wiped your lips.
Another man comes. Another man leaves.
Yet, you call me,
to talk.

You associate with men that give you oral,
and what you ask of me is voice.

You spoon feed me your words,
and I hear your voice shake.
I taste your vulnerability.
I rest my hand on your chest.
I feel your disillusionment.
I feel your heart,
beat.

Each of us: promiscuous persons;
I thought you would have been stronger.

I wanted to ****,
and you wanted to make love.
But I couldn't.
The only love making I knew,
came after a dial tone.
I left your call, waiting.
I've always had your number.

And now I can see your letter:
bold and scarlet.
And I still call you friend.
The "unconventional" harlot.