But The Sex Is Great

Simplicity put in her raking fingernails.
Hard truth in the glazed eyes, avoiding my face.
Everything about this was expected. Conceited moans, her teeth in my shoulder.
There were no perks, no downfalls.
Just the movement, her chest in my hands, hot pores perspiring with every thrust.
Her tongue was always cold, raising goosebumps on my exposed skin.
The ceiling fan was on, and it blew seven seconds bursts of chill onto our moving bodies.
Timed minutes before she was screaming any name but mine.
And when it was done, rolling away from each other, she would move to the end of the bed.
Her voice, a low alto, would bitch about the silk carpet feeling wet beneath her feet.
She slipped her jeans on, T-shirt, no need for undergarments with her visit.
We couldn’t even be friends.
The door would slam, and the same song would be on repeat in the background.
“The one I love, I hate, but the sex is great.”
My pillow smelled exactly of that, as I gave myself those ten seconds to wish she would come back, dyed, dry hair falling across my shoulders, as she admitted she wanted to stay.
The fan blew over my chest twice, and I had hoped to long.
I turned up the volume.
“Bitch.”