The Thing We Were Always Best At Besides Fucking Was Lying

i.

i could smell her, them, all of them, when i’d rest my head on his chest and kiss that spot i used to love to run my tongue over on his neck.

i would lay there, silk camisole and lace panties, let him touch me and wonder if he could smell you on me, too.

i’d catalog the differences between your hands and his.

his were cold, detached, never searching for my gratification and only for his. he touched me the way one flips a light switch. every light in his room so bright. me hanging on to the walls in mine, struggling to find my way out in the dark.

you’d put your hands on my skin, both of them already warm and sweaty. hungry, but taking your time. sinking your teeth down just a little in all of your favorite spots. you’d get on your knees and praise this body like being inside it was the closest thing you ever came to holy.

i’d daydream about it on my back some sunday mornings.

my hand intertwined with the thought of you as i let him fuck me. i’d bite my lip to keep from saying your name, as i screamed for him to go harder.

i was good at pretending that how fast my heart beat was because of him. student became master. he never did much for me, but he did teach me how to be a good liar.

ii.

i wonder if she loved you as much as i once loved him.

i wonder if she loves you as much as i’ve always loved you.

could she smell me on you the way the others could?

i’m sure of your love for her, but i’m also certain you haven’t stopped dreaming about licking wine, sticky and red off my skin, of lighting fires and burying yourself inside me in the middle of winter.

do i come to you still, all dripping honey down my thighs, all bottom lip bloody? do you wake up salivating at the mouth still?

when you stir in the middle of the night, does she know?

iii.

it’s true, most of my words have been for you, and i wrote a book on the way we moved. i know you know that all the poems hurt. every line another match to throw into the fire, but it’s also true that every flame, no matter how big, goes out after awhile.

yes, i still remember my pleas, the way you can still hear them in your dreams, begging you to please tear into me, begging you to devour me whole and lick every bone clean. and it’s true, you were always my favorite wolf. i didn’t know how to get off if i wasn’t being thrown around in your red mess, but i’ve long since burned, thrown away, and bleached every sheet.

and you…you’re laying next to her each night, practicing exorcisms to wash me from your skin, closing your eyes and seeing me, whispering on your knees, “i still love you, darling, please.” still waking up and licking your lips.

iv.

i know i said i’d always love you, but i’ve got you and him to thank for making me such a skilled liar.

v.

i no longer know how to write about you.

and if you walked into the same room as me today, my back wouldn’t arch, my thighs wouldn’t slide apart, and i wouldn’t feel anything with your eyes on me.