In my dreams, I was your wife
Picture perfect imitation.
Here, domestic servitude:
with no desire for anything
but pleasuring a life,
with nothing less but attitude.
Your perfect body taunted
All I did was stare, not touching.
Desire: staggered, overwhelmed
far too much, and when it came to
adult time, I panicked
waking in bed, alone and sad.
I’ll never be your lover
It doesn’t really matter now.
Depth of your duplicity
is something I find harrowing;
need to taste narrowing,
no call for adult time, go home.
My dreams are my own business
Stimulus summarily, ceased.
I can play with myself here
with no abuse, I’m in the clear,
take pointless excuses:
in the end, happier alone.
The Internet of Words 