Irena De Filippou
How did it get to this?
You wonder distantly,
staring at the ceiling.
You vaguely realise that his tongue is sensually stroking you.
Your body responds,
but your mind.
Your mind is approximately
3,955 miles away.
Your knee on the wall.
It barely registers.
Also, the fact that he’s scooping you around
with his arm so that he’s now lying under you.
The crackling of a condom package,
and the familiar smell of lubricated rubber.
The pain of him inside you,
more than anything,
is what yanks you back to the here and now.
Flesh. Silence in between grunts.
You’re under him. His scent. So unfamiliar.
Gasps torn out from your body by the physical act.
Silent, unnoticeable tears.
"Are you okay?”
He continues thrusting.
Until your body is racked with sobs.
He rolls off you. He says nothing.
You lie there, facing the wall. He says nothing.
His fingers run along your back gently,
bringing goose bumps and making you
feel better and worse at the same time. He says nothing.
He says nothing,
and you’re glad he doesn’t.
You don’t want to hear his voice.
After all, you don’t need another reminder
that the man in your bed right now isn’t the man who should be.