Transitions

It's a shock to the system.
A tearful withdrawal.
More than the fading away of endorphins.
He was gentler than he has been.
A hint of apology.
But he's right.
He's always right.
We can't stay there.
We can't stay in that state.
That dangerous place.
That den of seduction.

The cradle of friendship confuses our minds.
We both got drunk on hours and intimacy.
So the e-mail came like a slap in the face.
A reminder of my purpose,
my duty,
my mission.

It's just to make him cum.

As if that were all.
Just that and nothing more.

I reel,
I fume,
I cry and I hate him.

He's lying, of course.
To me and himself.
It's armour, you know,
and once I recover,
recover and apologize
for something not my fault,
I know that he's right.

Right to wear the armour
after standing there so naked,
his balls resting on the chopping block
with a knife beside my hand.

The risks that we took were more than the obvious.
The danger was great -
and we'll do it again.
Not very often
but sometime
again.

And I think of his words
and remember his eyes
and the hours we shared
and I know that he needs me

and my eyes are as soft and as moist as my pussy
as I turn away my head and cry.