I sit at my desk alone <br />as I did on many Sunday <br />afternoons when you came <br />back to me, <br />your arms aching for me, <br />though they smelled <br />of other women <br />and your sweet head bowed <br />for me to rub <br />and your heart bursting <br />with things to tell me, <br />and your hair <br />and your eyes <br />wild. <br /> <br />We would embrace <br />on the carpet <br />and leave <br />the imprint of our bodies <br />on the floor. <br />My back is still sore <br />where you pressed me <br />into the rug, <br />a sweet soreness I would never <br />lose. <br /> <br />I think of you always <br />on Sunday afternoons, <br />and I try to conjure you <br />with these words <br />as if you might <br />come back to me <br />at twilight <br />but you are never coming back <br />never. <br /> <br />The truth is <br />you no longer exist. <br />Oh you walk the world <br />sturdily enough: <br />one foot in front <br />of the other. <br />But the lover you were, <br />the tender shoot <br />springing within me, <br />trusting me with your dreams, <br />has hardened <br />into fear and cynicism. <br /> <br />Betrayal does that <br />betrays the betrayer. <br /> <br />I want to hate you <br />and I cannot. <br />But I cannot <br />love you either. <br /> <br />It is our old love <br />I love, <br />as one loves <br />certain images <br />from childhood <br />shards <br />shining in <br />the street <br />in the shit. <br /> <br />Shards of light <br />in the darkness.<br /><br />Erica Jong<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/i-sit-at-my-desk-alone/
