In the night, I pretend to feel warmth
of your body and hands, big and strong,
wishing not to wake up, not to feel
this cold absence of you (too real).
I escape to the fantasy—
—stop,
loose myself in the ecstasy—
—don't!
Would you think of me less if you knew
that I wish to not see morning dew?
But the sun will come out anyway,
painting all of my dreams with cold grey...
After making another mistake,
I sit here, on our bed, wide awake.
Slender body beside is not yours.
I'm not fooled: It's not love – it's remorse.

Here, I crumble in this morning light,
feeling all the effects of last night.
He'll wake up and pick up all his stuff,
look at me and breathe out: "that's enough."
He will leave; there isn't much I can give
to him now, as your absence I grieve.
One day, maybe, I'll see him for him,
Embrace on purpose — not on a whim.
Would you deem me a cheat if I flee
to his arms and pretend to be free
from this loss, maybe learning to heal?
Would you blame me for wanting to feel
his—another man's—warmth in our bed
that hasn't been warm at all since you left?