Perils of breakup sex (or, why I can't keep my legs closed for you)

Now see what you've done, she said,

spoilt my hair with your come,

you were always one for a mess,

never wanting to come inside,

forever searching for new places to spill.

It's right too, I guess, that 

we leave on this note,

the final sign-off as we part,

& I remain to clean 

your unending mess. 

Strange, that I even allowed you 

to fuck me this night,

but I guess

nostalgia beats experience -

& my pussy has it's own mind.

Now, 

why the hell am I feeling gooey inside,

when, after all we've been through, 

I should have felt relief -

not a fucking flood of emptiness.

But you have always been my best lover,

held me together, as you tore me.

God, how I will miss having you inside, 

our mornings, your hand between my legs,

& my holding you, as you grew soft to hard.

Why couldn't our life be the fun 

which we could conjure in our sheets?

How can we be like animals in bed 

but 

despicable human beings?

I part with you the way I part my legs -

it's a mystery as to who would 

enter my body, or my life,

but just go, lover, just go,

before my love again turns to lust. 

Let us break what we have 

to preserve what we had,

let us find ways to rebuild what is left -

we will see if the worst of us has died,

we will see if there is some good which survives. 

But if things go badly for a while,

come back, sleep on my breast -

I will be a Mary to your Jesus -

you will break my body with your sorrow,

I will mend you by holding you soft. Soft. Soft.