(Winter)
I come to you, another snowy day, seeking comfort in your arms.
You always beg me to quit, even though you don't know what it is I do. You've never once questioned a single wound. Instead, you lovingly administered bandages and ointments, always pressing your lips gently to the injury, always whispering sweet words of sorrow.
Yuki. Your name means "luck." How is it then that you are so unlucky to have fallen in love with me? You must know my heart belongs to another, yet you still maintain your love for me. You look after me, care for me, protect me.
As if I need protecting.
When you're finished with the wounds, we make sweet love, tumbling across the crisp sheets of your western style bed. I never tire of having you in me; of giving me what he won't. I suppose I do feel something for you, if not love. Why else would I keep coming back? If I just wanted sex, I could have a different lover every night.
Your kisses are soft and slow. You always make me cry. I don't know why; but I cry every time. Perhaps it's because I don't feel for you what I should and I know I'm treating you exactly how he treats me. Perhaps I feel sorry…I never mean to hurt you, but I know I do.
After, you always hold me protectively, curling around behind me. When we lay there, sated, I feel something more for you…Perhaps it's love; I guess I'll never know. I lean into your chest, basking in your warmth, and you nuzzle against my neck. I feel calm afterwards. Is this, perhaps, closer to love?
You always wait until after to tell me "I love you."
And all I can say is "goodnight."