This one is not autobiographical!

MISSED
(c) mmSeason 2002

Your whisper is a lover’s,
your touch a seducer’s –
not yours.
After midnight when I am still awake
your fingers creep to wake me,
a murmured wish to please
disguising your wish for pleasure.
You stand at Cupid’s shoulder
guiding his arrow to strike
your vision of me – vision
that is outline only, no internals:
lacking my lack.

How can your manhood
complete my womanhood
ignoring my empty womb?

Then in satisfaction-sleep
you wear the grin of accomplishment
executed. Slumber is my dream
but since fantasy deserted me
I live with the real.
In the morning you’ll feel good
that you made me feel good;
you believe you touch my heart
forgetting your prick doesn’t even reach my gut,
doesn’t even turn my stomach.

My womb
which, empty, is not your concern
concerned you when you’d filled it with a life.
No magic of yours now can satisfy my void
since you commanded me rid
of the fulfilment you visited on me.