You still let me fuck you.
No words.
No foreplay.
Just pull your underwear to the side,
get it over with.

You don’t moan.
I don’t care.
It’s not about connection.
It’s about killing time.
Burning the edge off.

Afterward, you wipe yourself,
don’t say a word.
I don’t either.
We don’t look at each other.
We haven’t in months.

You used to smile after sex.
Now you just leave the room.

We eat dinner in silence.
Scroll our phones like addicts.
Sleep back to back,
if we sleep at all.

You cry sometimes in the bathroom.
I hear you.
I don’t go in.
I just turn the volume up
on whatever bullshit I’m watching.

We both know this is over.
Has been.
But leaving takes effort.
And effort’s for.