Prisoners of Love

Every night I lie with my back against my lover.
Wrapped in his arms I sleep in isolation.

Not before he admires the way my exposed body lies.
He can see nothing but his primitive desires.

I beg for words, any at all, but he cannot offer one.
Can no man get me to stay?

I reminisce upon the past. The ones I left for better or worse.
Here lies pedestrian affection at its finest.

For passion conduces an existence of nil but sex and incommunicable thoughts.
And the price of a cerebral connection is a string of faked orgasms.

I refuse to accept the two be mutually exclusive.
But again I lie in the endearments of another failed attempt to spite the odds.

He whispers utter adoration. Rested on my pillow, clumsily I lie.
The same way I’ve always lied, countless times before.