To a friend I fucked over.

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I want you to know that we didn’t make love.

We didn’t connect 

and lie back

and talk of dreams

on that worn out rug

 in the deserted flat.

We didn’t eat breakfast

or drink coffee

or whisper our dreams

and our secrets

into fresh kissed ears.

 

I want you to know

It was quick

robotic,

unpractised and unplanned.

There was no warming up

or cigarettes.

I wonder if it helps  to know that I suffered

and I wept,

 I wept for you.

 

Not for my loss of you,

But for you losing him,

because I was tough.

By then,

and you were soft and weak, and gentle, and beautiful

and better than me.