I wish

 I wish I still loved you enough to cry.

I run my fingers down your spine; the moon is reflected on the pale sheets. I knew I should have bought that book of poetry - now I have only a novel and a Tanach for company - and you, of course.

I felt like Eve, the first time I kissed you and took you to my bed. I let you taste my lips, but I would not give you of the forbidden fruit.

 I hate myself for sounding so cliche.

Leonard Cohen music plays in the background; I feel your lips on my thigh, and know that I will drown my loneliness in the caresses of air upon my body in the morning, right before I have my cup of coffee.

Did I leave you or did you leave me?

I suppose it doesn't matter now - here, between these sheets.

I wish I still loved you enough to cry.