it would be
because he was a player
a rake, and we both knew
we were shooting hell
blinded by the way night rolls
he would take his jacket off
his hands on my shoulders
and then my hips, and he
would smell like cognac
and sweet tobacco, his
eyelashes a sweep of shade
against his eyes
blue – no, brown –
dark, carnal, like a leopard
or a lynx, and he would make
no sound and I would hate him
hate his silence, hate
knowing he could take
this kiss, so sure
the night would hide us
the light a subtle arc reaching
but not finding
knowing I was one
of many, thinking him
weak, indifferent
I could be unfeeling too
the watching of him leaving
bringing
no anxious rise of longing
no pain, no ache in my chest
no catch that brings a gasp
wrecking the morning
it would be that
only that, so it could never
not ever, be you.
