My Fault

I measure his love by the ferocity of trembles as his body enters mine. I quantify his desire by the hunger in his eyes that was once ever present.  I count the seconds between his head touching the pillow and his hand reaching to touch my skin.  My doubt blooms when I am unable to remember the last time we danced, drank wine and shared our wants until dawn wrapped us in her light. And when his lips taste mine, I am already anticipating the end. 

It occurs to me, in my need to compare and criticize, I am the reason for our demise.



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