posing in the dark

and i thought of how nice it’d be

to have your things among my things

along the bathtub’s edge

and i imagined myself running out of soap

and using yours

and wearing you to work, and the grocery store

and i imagined that night, laying down beside you

and smelling your neck

We were supposed to be friends. We were friends. Before the curiosity.

We were friends for years. There was trust and confidence, slowly built; accumulated to a solid foundation on which I stood. He would never betray me; why would he? for nor would I betray him. This we both knew and stood upon and rested in our conversation. It wasn't all necessarily a secret; it simply was safe, like an oasis there for anyone to discover, but hardly advertised.

That foundation became sullied and soiled when the curiosity led to intense desire and a breaking of unmade rules, for sharing so easily can lead to a passive abuse of such comfort. Soon questions were asked that shouldn't have been asked. And secrets were freely given in reply.

The honesty fell into over-honesty; we somehow fell into a niche of intimacy and trust that lacked the commitment of having fallen into love as well. He held the platonic attitude of the dear friend that he was. This form of attention which he provided satisfies parts of me which are most desperately neglected, and yet there is so much that is missing.