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.


Written by Internet of Words

Published Writer, 53-ish / Still European / Trauma Survivor / Photos / Exercise / Bisexual / Chaotic Good / HUMAN SPORK / Mental Health / Daily Twitter Short Story / @ProperBard in Residence, My House / Shortlisted & Published Author / Original poems/fiction © IoW 2020