He is on my tongue, my body , my hair.
He is inside me and across my skin.
I can smell him, and still feel his fingers,
the ghosts of their path is still electric.
I crave him, want him back soiling my sheets.
The light fades to night and he returns home.
His home, his wife, his children, his real life.
I am the skeleton in his cupboard .
His mistress, his big lie, his secret love.
I sit, grasping the crumbs off her table.
Our heat is white, we collapsed in a heap.
Our bodies tangled in clumsy greed, need.
He controlled me, he commands with a touch.
When his lips brushed my nipples I pushed back.
When I matched him, he pushed me down, away.
This afternoon was our last gasp of lust.
I do not shower or clean the bedding.
My flat becomes a stinking shrine to him.
My love who could not cope with all the guilt.
He leaves me, as the mistress is nothing.
One Sunday I fling open the windows.
I scrub myself of him and all my flat.
I box up all his gifts and bury them.
I cut off the hair, he loved; I rise clean.
I can still taste him, I love, but he’s gone.
I lost as he was someone else’s love.
I have lost the taste of his skin, his lust.
This is not real but I have known the mistress, the wife and the errant husband. I feel i should be able to write form any point of view!!!