In the beginning was the word and the word was lover.
Lover was a word she never quite understand. With its root of love, it really had nothing to do with love and everything to do with ***.
You need a lover he told her. She pondered this. Mulled it over in her mind. To take a lover, so different than falling in love.
She knew she wanted love. And she wanted ***. But she did not want these things separated. And she would not share and so she declined.
And then, love happened. He fell as she knew he would and later, she did as well.
But in his despair he could no longer love her. He suggested again that they be lovers. And again she pondered. He wanted to give her what he could, what was easy, what he knew he was good at.
And she wanted more. She would not be a lover with out love, it made no sense to her.
In the end there was word. And the word was no.

In the hipster cafe
where you must know
a foreign language
to order a drink,
where your drink comes with a
swirl of a heart which you sorely need,
where the price of that heart cuts deep.

In the hipster cafe
you might meet an old lover.
You might cry big crocodile tears
into your swirly heart drink
while he begs you to love him right.

In the hipster cafe
you might have a first date.
He might flirt with the cute barista
and then look you up and down
like a prized race horse.
He might insist on kissing you
because, chemistry.

In the hipster cafe
you might try to hide behind
an apple product pretending to write
or maybe really writing
while the swirly heart
slowly dissolves into nothingness.

In the end I did not have to say
the one word that would have
ended it all, or never even
have let it begin.

The word that got stuck in my throat
like an errant popcorn kernel,
making me sputter and cough,
making my eyes water until
I could not see.

Instead, today he kindly asked
"Should I not come?"
Yes! I said yes please!
Then, "should I get my things?"
Yes I said, yes please!

And just like that
It was over.

I am angry and hurt and so I egg him on a little.
I pretend for a moment that his open relationship idea is a good one. After all, life is short. Why not be free.

He likes this version of me, flirty and slutty and when I mention my new lace bra he decides to show me just how much he likes this new me.

There on my screen. Proof of what? How much he wanted me to be different? How exciting it is to think of me with another man? How exciting his new found freedom will be?

He thinks I like this. That I might mastrubate to it. That with it I will be happy.
For that is what he wants. I do believe that. But no. It did not make me happy. It makes me cheap and sad. And so very alone.
And so I ponder, what do I do with it? And how has it come to this?
His ****, hard and ready and me, alone again.