Loving the Wife (of a friend)

She wanted me
She wanted it
She wanted
You know
She wanted it
She’d made that clear
in no uncertain terms
on more than one occasion

I tried to pretend
that I was unaffected (but I was)
that I was above it all (but I wasn’t)
that I wasn’t the kind of man
who would fuck a friend’s wife
(but I was, wasn’t I?)

‘cause it was in my head
damn, was it in my head
her lips and her hips and her legs and her tits
her bad girl tats and her hot, leering glances
promising sweaty, dirty, nasty

and I was lonely and
self-loathing and
desperately needed someone
to make me feel
that I was important
that I was worthy
of notice
that at least one person wanted me
at least for my body

I would have fucked her
I fantasized fucking her
I planned on fucking her

though I would have hurt my friend
through her
I could fuck away myself
I could fuck away obsession
fuck my insignificance
my inadequacy
my ineptness

in the end
I didn’t do it
I couldn’t do it

I don’t know why
I didn’t do it
it wasn’t love or morality or decency
so I don’t know why
I didn’t do it
I never did fuck
the wife of my friend

at least not
that time

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