I only let her touch me in the dark, so maybe then I can pretend she's someone else... someone I love.
It was her idea to start. I don't moan her name- or any name at all to which she can ascertain it's not all a dream- but I can still see the way her eyes spark life, burn through the black to pierce me with guilt when I shut my own. I see it, I know it's there... so I don't look. I never look, and I know she's always hoping I will, that she always will be.
And maybe I want her to know- maybe I want her to know that I fucking hate her for making me enjoy this, the way my body reacts and my mind shuts down. The way I look for her with an anguished gaze and cracking lips, dry palms and rolling hips. The way I fucking hope we could be, even though I know we can't, even though I know we never will be. And yet, we try every night.
Oh, yes, she knows.