Little Differences

It’s not the same anymore.

Maybe it’s me. And maybe I shouldn’t expect it. We’re a different phase in our relationship, aren’t we?

We’re older now. And gone are the days when one of us would just feel inspired, or horny, or even a little bored. When we’d just give the other one that look, that tilt of an eyebrow and off we’d be running into the bedroom, clothes coming flying off, and red-hot skin sliding over red-hot skin, panting, gasping, flying. Rolling around amidst rumpled covers, your fingers all thick through my hair. Sometimes it wouldn’t even be the bedroom…

These days it’s all about planning, and cycles, and counting the days. Charts. Temperatures. And I know you try: coming home with flowers or chocolates. And I slip into that orange-and-sea-green dress. We eat. We talk to each other. We walk into the bedroom with purpose, marching, going to war. But your touch doesn’t feel the same, there’s a softness gone, and a fire banked.

With each month that passes and the seed doesn’t take root, we re-double our efforts. We’re all about the efficiency, the timing. The hope. The patience, when that hope is dashed again. How long have we been trying now?

You still hold me afterwards, we stroke and nuzzle, we drowse in the scent of each other. We take too long to fall asleep.

It’s not the same anymore.

Picture credit/discredit: author's own work