In the embrace of dawn, roused from the realm of dreams, body trembling beneath the meager protection of threadbare sheets.
Fingers curled into the fabric, a futile attempt to ward off the chill that had seeped into the marrow of my bones.
My bedside once warmed by the presence of a a warm breath of amatory, lay barren and cold, now absent of such wondrous warmth that had once cradled this shivering dove.
The feeble light that dared to intrude through the window cast an ethereal glow upon my visage, illuminating the pallor of skin, a canvas of desolation.
Once vibrant tresses, a fiery cascade of red, now hung limp and lifeless, a mere shadow of their former glory.
Brilliant sapphires that once danced with life and passion, were now dulled, their luster stolen away by the cruel hand of loneliness.
The absence had drained the vibrancy from this world, leaving in its wake a hollow echo of what once was.
Supine I find myself ensnared in the cruel reality of solitude.
My beloved, once a constant presence by my side, was now lost in the labyrinth of nocturnal revelries, his heart ensnared by most likely booze and lustrous succubi beckoning of single work companions.
The echoes of his laughter, the whispers of his promises, all seemed to fade into the ether, leaving alone thoughts that should never had even existed or entered.
The man I had pledged my life to, the man who once showered me with affection and attention, was now a phantom, his essence replaced by a cold, indifferent stranger.
His hours were consumed by work, his mind preoccupied with matters that took him far from home, even though his company was but a stone's throw away.
Anniversaries, once celebrated with joy and love, were now forgotten, their significance lost in the maelstrom of his new life.
Found myself once again questioning the transformation that had befallen us.
The man I had married was now a , heart and mind ensnared by the allure of a life outside our home.
Felt like a specter in my own life, invisible to the man I loved, reduced to a mere object in the grand tapestry of his existence.
The realization was a bitter pill to swallow, a cruel reminder of the transience of human nature and the fragility of promises.
In the cold embrace of dawn, found myself reluctantly surrendering to the call of the day.
The once comforting warmth of his smile, now a mere ghastly wraith, was absent from mornings, making the task of rising from the sanctuary of bed an arduous ordeal.
In the heart of this home, the kitchen, I began the ritual of preparing breakfast for our offspring, their innocent faces a beacon of purpose in my otherwise hollow existence.
Yet, as the morning light grew stronger, so did the icy tendrils coiling around my heart.
Each day, each betrayal, each absence when I needed him most, served as another layer of frost on an already frigid heart.
I could feel it hardening, becoming more like a fossilization than a vessel of love.
The question haunting me - how much more should one take before their glass heart, like a fragile piece of alabaster, shattered into a thousand pieces caught in the zephyr of time, and flying off into hourglass's granules of dust, why should I even endure?
As I cooked breakfast, the sizzling, golden butter and the crackling, morning eggs conspired to transport me back to the halcyon, younger years, when our lovemaking sessions were a symphony of rapturous, epiphanic moments.
I used to wake him up with a gentle, rhapsodic touch, a soft, pianissimo caress, a benthic oscillation, as if my fingertips were conducting a celestial, underwater waltz, amidst the undulating, golden waves of his field of hay, where his jewels, like shimmering, auroral stars, lay hidden, waiting to be discovered.
Sometimes, when he would spit, a burst of fiery, solar energy, like a supernova, would erupt from his tips, and I would burst into his burgundy star's atmosphere, a meteoric, lovesick, comet, leaving a trail of glittering, stardust in my wake, as if the very fabric of our love was being rewritten, in the fiery, script of our own, private, cosmology.
And I would keep going, fueled by the combustive, nuclear passion of our love, another solar flare, a blazing, stellar explosion, impact, an echo booming through the celestial, expanse of our entwined, souls, a reverberation, that would resound, throughout the ages as he deluged lachrymose.
Those days, I missed them, like a ghostly, longing apparition, haunting the shadows of my soul, for they were filled with adventurous, clandestine encounters, hidden behind the blinds of shame, where our love was a forbidden, sweet indulgence.
But it was he, who grew bored with me, like a jaded, connoisseur, satiated with the sampling of my delights, and moved on to newer, more exotic, flavors, leaving me to pine, like a forlorn, lovesick, siren, still longing for the thrill of his cobra's touch, to tame my restless, yearning heart.
I still long for him to feel the same, to reignite the embers of our passion, to rekindle the flame that once burned bright, and warm, in the depths of our entwined, souls.
The sound, moistened, velvety whispers, just the remembrance of the warm, air perspiration, in the tunnel of my ear, as he whispered sweet, tantalizing, temptations, his fingers strumming my violin, like a virtuoso, masterfully, plucking the strings of my desire.
And, oh, the clay, hardening, under the salivary glands, as his lips, like a master, artificer, shaped, molded, and awakened, the tender, yielding, flesh of my heart, to feel the rhythmic, pulsation, of his heartbeat, in between my lips, like a secret, sacred, communion, a moment of synchronized, symbiotic, bliss.
A soft, tender coo, escapes this sentinel, as I stand vigilant, caressing statue, a marble, alabaster beauty, smooth, and cold, yet radiating a heat, that only a mere touch can awaken.
Before etching thy caricatures, he gently brushes against my skin, like a summer breeze, his fingers leaving behind a trail of rose petals, delicate, and fragile, little promises.
His obelisk, a sursurrous ember, a burning, fiery passion, that bursts our passionate embrace, into an abattoir of cacophonies, a chaotic, maelstrom of sound, and fury, that only raises our binding flesh, into bumps, to shiver, and shudder, with anticipation.
Frames spent, our bodies, exhausted, drained, yet sated, like a canvas, stretched, and taut, bearing the weight of our desire.
And bosoms, heaving, chests, rising, and falling, like a bellows, fueling the pyre, inferno flames, that throb, and pulsate, with joyful relief, a celebration, of our love, a triumph, of our desire, over the mundane, and the ordinary.
Smiling.
Spawns take their sack lunches, and off to school for the day.
I watch to be sure it arrives and they get on, just to be safe.
Rapt at the door and I open it to get a rushed brush on face and long embrace, I hated leading her on, but doing it myself was just not enough to keep me entertained, I don't think of it as cheating if he doesn't even care I breath.
As I gazed into the abyss of her eyes, I felt the weight of her affection, a crushing burden that suffocated my very soul.
The tender touch of her hand, all mere precursors to the inevitable descent into the darkness of her true nature.
She was a pawn in a game of seduction, was forced to deny the ring that symbolized her true fervor, a gilded cage that would have ensnared her in my web of deceit.
Each day, she transformed, a chameleon of amatory, her beauty a mere facade that concealed the cog of her inner machinations.
The vertiginous spiral of our passion, a vortex of kisses and trails of discarded clothing, left in our wake like breadcrumbs leading to the altar of our damnation.
The living room couch, our stage of shame, where she would lay down our tools of manipulation, our bag of tricks, to elevate our sin to an art form.
And yet, in the end, it is I who will be left to settle for her, a consolation prize, a consolation for the love that I was denied.
For he, the one who truly held my heart, pushed me away, leaving me to drown in the abyss of her false affection.
The agony of my longing, a cadaver on the autopsy table of her desires, dissected and devoured, leaving naught but the bitter taste of regret.
