I wrote this a few days ago, but it took a while to pluck up the courage to upload it as it’s sexually-orientated (though not really explicit or anything like that). It’s about a girl I dated a couple of years ago. The relationship fell short of what I expected – the way things happened it seemed like one of those things that are ‘fated’ to happen, it really came together against the odds, but then we quickly realised there wasn’t depth to it.
When we first met we clicked, kissed, then a big drama forced it to end before it had even begun. Then a year later we saw each other again. Again there were difficulties to overcome but we ended up together. Unfortunately it never worked out, we had nothing in common, and it was empty of any deep meaning. There was a lot of lust though, and it was enjoyable in it’s own shallow way. Here is the poem:
We started with a first impression
of lust.
An ‘eyes met’ moment of chemistry
said we were linked.
“I knew I had to have you,” you told me after
(you’d had me)
and I liked that,
liked that you weren’t afraid to want,
or have, or give or take.
We fucked over and over
(and said very little after).
I remember dripping sweat on you
us laughing
my sweat pooling with yours in your navel,
or the small of your back.
You were pretty.
And mischievous.
You always smelt of marijuana.
Somehow the emptiness made it fun,
no meaning or pressure,
because we soon knew there was nothing to lose
nothing between us but lust,
and that faint and quickly-fading
false impression of love.
You demoralised me – I wanted more
than sex -
but I would do it all over again without thinking.
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