when we fucked for the first time
it was glorious
though i still can’t decide,
whether it was the execution or the alcohol.
when we fucked again it was still good;
anticipation made me want and
watching your body move,
knowing that what was underneath would soon be mine
was a potent spur.
the fourth time we were together
you told me i was attractive
– such a damning phrase –
and that we were friends.
i told you we weren’t
and then you came.
and i still can’t decide,
upon reflection and with time’s passing,
whether i miss the you that is you,
your smile and wit and charm,
or i just need to feel you throw me up against a wall
one last time.