236/365 To the Other Woman 2

To the other woman,
The first time he mentioned your name,
I imagined something more impressive
than this.

In fact,
the first time he even told me you existed,
I had to think I'd be looking at someone who could even fake my stature.
Child,
I bet your frail bones creak more than the bed when he makes love to you.,
You are more wet behind the ears than he could ever get you wet in-between your legs,
and your hands are nowhere near long enough to do the job mine's do.

But when I watched your tiny hand
replace mine
in his
my sweat took on colors
and a mind of it's own.
Rush delivered itself to the places his torso would miss the most.

Like the palms of my hands.
I curved my wrist
and let Salvador slip to my fingertips
and traced the places in my room where he left his scent
to leave these concrete reminders that he had ever been there
so that I wouldn't drive myself crazy
swiping at memories like mirages.

And if you ever catch yourself
wishing your hands could get as sweaty as mine
when you feel he warm breath on the back of your neck,
I want you to pretend.

Pretend you are familiar with slow touch of a man
who can make you orgasm with just the heat in his fingertips,
a caress with a butterfly effect
setting off tidal waves miles down my spine,

Your spine slouches under a weight it is not mature enough to carry,
you wear his love like a burden
do you get tired of bending over?
Of wear make-up and skimpy clothing
to grab the attention of men thrice your age

I don't know how you long you have known him,
rest assure I know him better.

You will never know a man better than when you are first to lay beside him without touching
when the distance between your bodies is no longer measure in inches
but by the miles in his silence,
when

*Because if he could ever not want me,
then he can surely grow tired of you.

*Do you ever grow tired of bending over?
To show men your pink long
beneath the frilly tutu you never gave yourself
the time to grow out of.