letters to my lovers

Lovers mistakes. 

He would get so mad, so uncharacteristically mad sometimes. I would look past it only because why am I tending to this man? This man who has made it very clear, crystal clear that this is simply a fair exchange. So what purpose would me healing wounds do? It’s been years. Some soft. Some hard. But the time shared created more than what either one of us cared to admit. And the truth was that even between kisses there were words that weighed. They tugged at our cores. Made us uncomfortable because although we both appreciated the night silence there was something more. The softer years exposed just that. It became love making between the tainted. Fingertips and lips became well acquainted and there was a type of satisfaction that a physical just can’t bring. I think it started the night I made you dinner. I fed you not just with lust and breast and body. I made the mistake of tending to this man one night and it opened doors to a possibility that lovers should never know of. Only doors we know to exist are the ones we’ve held onto for support during intense conversations between bodies. I thought it closed all the way but I never knew you kept it cracked until the other day. And the confusion that I wore was very evident that all these years something was forming before us. I just don’t understand. Why are you so mad with me? Was the love making that good that you forgot about the arrangement? How could you think it was deeper when you walked down the aisle holding her hand? I admitted the mistake was made when love slipped from my lips and landed in your lap as a plate of arroz con pollo. But that was a mistake. We all make mistakes. Are you realizing yours all of a sudden? Because I can’t fathom why you’re so angry with me when you’re the one who said “I do.”

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