At Least, That's What I Tell Myself

It's not the last time.

I press my nose against your neck and inhale, the strawberry powder of your skin almost too sweet, the texture too soft and foreign. You tell me to get on with it, your pulse quickening, your sweat making my kisses slide off like oil on water.

It's not the last time.

I begin to push off your straps before I could think otherwise, sliding my hands down your shoulders, your bra unfastened but not off. I can't see your ribs, your navel, can only feel them under the cheap cotton. But that's okay.

It's not the last time.

You tug off my pants yourself, as if wondering what was taking so long. I slap your fingers away, unfastening my own seams, freeing myself without your help. Uncomfortably, you adjust your own underwear so it doesn't have to be removed all the way.

It's not the last time.

I push one, two, three inside. You arch off the bed just in time, in rhyme. It's poetry, it's a porno, pulling back to see you squirm. There's a light in your eyes when you tell me you're ready, that you want me. There's no need for it.

It's not the last time.

I fall into you. It's warm, it's beautiful, but it's nothing special. We've done this hundreds of thousands of times before. The sounds are almost ugly, cacophony. Slick, wet, kind of broken, I thrust into you, and when I lick your cheek, your tears taste like honey.

It's not the last time.

You shudder and scream. I keep going. You ask for my hand, beckon me over to the edge. I jump, and it's over. I try not to read the expression on your face as pity when you put your clothes back on, give back the other key. I'll be okay, you say.

It's not the last time.
It's not the last time.
It's not the last time.