Our love was torrid, insatiable, 
Filled with romantic liaisons,
Slow dances, poems, laughter.
We skinny dipped with friends, made love
In cars, on fields, in hotels, in borrowed rooms,
On your husband's birthday,
On my wife's birthday.
We said it was an accident.
But then the passion in you died,
And you began to sound like her,
And you wanted me to be him.
I was a trade-in,
You were a trap.
I wasn't on your timetable,
And you wouldn't wait.
You couldn't go, 
I couldn't stay.

Copyright © 2001 Rickey Pittman. All Rights Reserved. May not be re-printed in any form without express written consent of the author. Do not copy or post.