i read and then i reread,
every word you’ve placed upon these pages,
describing lovers of your past
in the most perfect of ways,
in sentences i only wish could contain,
my name.
reveling in all of their sin and glory,
because the two seem to go hand in hand.
and though i shouldn’t,
i continue.
i read and then i reread,
your ****** tellings of beautiful women with bodies incapable of imperfections,
with characteristics that unmistakably contradict mine.
truthfully it hurts in the most painful of ways,
but I’ve learned better than to ask,
and i no longer question why.

i just read and i reread,
picturing your hands,
on her thighs.