I never tell you.

You tell me that you’re sorry.
Sorry that I caught you at a crossroads in life.
I smile, I say
don’t be silly,
don’t be sorry.

I don’t tell you that I’m sorry.
Sorry that I believed maybe we would be different.
That it would be more than just sex.
That, for once, someone wanted me for me
and not my tits.

You tell me you don’t want to ruin the friendship.
Friendship that might become more in the future.
I smile, I say
I understand,
I agree.

I don’t tell you we can’t be friends.
Friends don’t hope for something more.
But that’s what you want isn’t it?
To keep me waiting…hoping…
Hook line and sinker.

You tell me it’s up to me if we stop.
Stop fucking, that is.
I smile, I say
sex doesn’t mean anything,
not unless you make it mean something.

I don’t tell you I want it to mean something.
Something more than just scratching an itch.
I want the lingering looks and the deep kisses,
the soft, tender touches
and the pillow talk that stretches until our eyelids involuntarily fall shut.

And yet,
the clock strikes 2am
and you’re fucking me from behind.
I tell myself it’s the last time,
a goodbye of sorts.
Afterwards, it hurts to look into your soft blue eyes and know
It doesn’t really mean a thing.
I leave the next morning wondering if
this will be the last time I let another man make me think my body is all I’m worth.