It’s like the slow beat of a drum leading on a march that ends only when the body and soul are given up not in ecstasy but in sighs.
Friday night was about your pleasure and there was a moment where I knew that it didn’t matter who I was just what I was doing and I felt it, like ice cubes on my ribs, shocking and cold.
Saturday my exhaustion and sickness led only to your numbness and withdrawal. We slept alone in the same bed.
Sunday was a farce of epic proportions: me to sit, waiting and waiting for you to grant the largesse of your time. I felt bitter and resentful; I refused. You went about your day as planned.
Monday a moment of peace, perhaps even a detente, shattered when you would barely kiss me as if I were a leper or I was encroaching upon your space. Empty-hearted and forced; I’d rather you have kept them.
Tuesday was you off to the fresh embrace of your real lover. And so on Wednesday. As done on Thursday. And yes, too, Friday. Brief glances of you but not even the mild buss of busy yet involved and content companions; the concealed touch of your hand to mine in the car was like a Judas kiss.
Ah Saturday, finally, the weekend and our time…no, not ours? My mistake, the role was for me to observe you with that same real lover. i felt like a voyeur and had no choice but to refuse the invite after to break bread; I was seething, seething, seething because I felt mocked.
And then Saturday night, you, out and about. And the same on Sunday. And mostly the same on Monday; barely a word or an acknowledgement, just an evening affirmation of me waiting, waiting, and waiting for you.
You left me this weekend. I was set aside, patted on the head, and told to wait. and I look out to the remainder of this quickly passing year and it is as barren as this past week. it will be so much more of this feeling, this feeling of abandonment, this feeling of derision, this knowing deep in my bones that I matter less than all the things you want/need to do.
I matter, I know, but less.