The Wolf

Every memory I have of you changes with the hour,
It’s bitter in the morning, but honey glazed at night,
Even the summer air feels cold against my naked skin
When you’re not here, warming me from the inside out,
And ‘whose fault is that?’ you would ask,
Right before crawling under someone else’s skin,
Perhaps it’s mine, even after all this time.

So I close my eyes, because ignorance is bliss, and just feel
The ghost of your fingertips as it caresses my sensitive skin,
Until my cells awaken and my spine trembles,
Before long, my heart starts beating a crescendoing drumroll,
It turns out longing and yearning is excruciatingly intense,
So while self-served, every one of my orgasms is for you.

And I wonder what that’s like,
Being a star in somebody else’s fantasy reel,
I want to be that for you, a sexed up pin-up model
That drives lustful people to wish they were you,
And for you to spend hours thanking every heaven that’s listening
That you’re the one I would invite to spend eternity in my bed,
But for you nothing that’s taken is actually wanted.

But whose fault is that, even after all this time?
I suppose sooner or later the wolf has to eat,
But I didn’t need to make myself such easy prey.

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