I just want to sit next to him. His love was an injection and now he's left me at the bottom of a pile of rubble. The earthquake, the aftershock, and now his pig skinned attempt at turning himself into lovers' lane. He wants to be a thing, instead of a man. He can't have me anymore because he can't admit that I am the whore he always wanted, the slut that knew how to suck him off and stick it in. He wants to touch my face and I just want to be punished now. I don't need tender love. I need a fix. I need to be tempted. I need to push the guilt aside and ride him 'til the sun comes up. He knew how to spread me on a piece of toast and now he wants to watch me dribble like syrup on hotcakes. Why did he become such a child, a sexless being? His fingers are no good to me, especially if he only uses them to make words into poetry. I don't need his thoughts and feelings of mushy gushy sentimental love. I need the love that hangs down, the kind with a sack of more love hanging behind it. I need to feel it in my hands, smack my ass, take me by surprise. With thunder crashing down and his love inside me he can't go wrong, but he does cause he stops and wants to talk but we have nothing to converse about. He's rich and I don't give a shit. "Keep your money but give me your love- deep and strong- make me sit up in the middle of the night and reach for your love or my phone." I used to call him and take him off schedule but he won't budge anymore. Patience is hell and respect is all but wasted on a woman who just wants to sit next to him.