He has his hand on my thigh

A fistful of regret tightly clenched in each touch

He speaks to me, not wanting me

but desire slickers in blank spaces

Where her face was once seen erases

He doesn’t want me but I am the next best thing

Alone and awake with such sensitive taste

I do not think he has noticed that I feel the same

Slinking desire for a man I can’t see

Holding my thighs together while whispering “forgive me”