I don’t love you

Last night, having ravished and left me spent, my lover gazed at me fully and said clearly so I would make no mistake as to his true feelings towards me – you know I don’t love you.  I know – I replied.  He only wanted me for  recreational use and I have been quite happy to oblige as he is a perfect match for my appetite.  I, on the other hand, feel quite enamoured of him and have penned a number of sonnets, inspired by the memory of his ardour.

It suited me that we continued to see each other occasionally, even as I lamented to friends and colleagues that I could not imagine the tedium of living with someone.  Past live-in lovers, one husband, now an ex-husband, these have come and gone and whilst the pain of parting had been  acute, the relief at having my own space, beholden to none as to how I manage my comings and goings soon dulled the ache of a heart break.

But even as the echo of unrequited love followed me through the day,  I am reminded of my first infatuation and those which came after – spurning those young men who would lay their hearts open to me, declaring their love, I went after those others who did not love me, determined to pursue them, believing that I might change their hearts.

But I have a plan to change my foolish ways and said to my lover this morning that it may be high time he returned to the dating site and found someone else for his sensual use.  I hope I may extricate my hopeless heart before I am smitten beyond redemption.

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