You Only Love Me

To me, you're the frenzied gasp I make as your fingers first trace my skin. The moan as you bite my neck and thighs. The sigh as you push your lips to mine. You're also four hours of ecstasy then four days of depression. A few moments of feeling wanted then an enternity of loneliness. A call asking me to come over then a conversation telling me to go. You only like me for one thing and that's the way I look when I'm lying in your bed naked and panting. You only like me when your fingers are in my mouth and my back is arched and I cry out with every thrust. You only want me when one hand is wrapped in my hair and the other grips the blanket and you're pushing my head up and down to a rhythm you decided. You only care about me when you're clutching my breast and your teeth are pinching my nipple and your hand is buried between my legs. My moans fuel you to greater heights. And you reach them. That's the first, the best, the longest, you say and I parrot your words with records of my own, the first, the best, the longest. And you smile and we go back for round two of an infinite boxing match of sorts that I only started because I was lonely. But no matter how many times we box, how many times I present my body, fresh and willing, to you, I'll never be more than someone you relegate to the corner of your brain labeled "of least importance". And no matter how right your arms feel around me, no matter what your kisses ignite inside me, no matter how many times your touches make me scream, you'll always ask me to go afterwards. Because this relationship isn't about the jokes I tell. Because you couldn't care less about how my day was. Because you don't want to go out for a dinner date. Because you only love me when we're making love.