Charlotte Covey reverie

when you press

inside me, i think

of your daughter, how

she is only three years

younger than i.

i imagine you walking

her down the aisle,

imagine you worrying

about her, holding her

as any father should. all the while,

we are moaning, and you

are whispering dirty

in my ear, and i whisper

in my head, his

daughter is three

years younger

than i, his daughter is

three years younger than

i, until it becomes

etched on the walls of my

memory. after, when you pull

away, spent, and i clean

up white musk with my

fingers, i imagine her,

try to picture your face as hers

in my mind. and i wonder

what makes me so very

much older than she is

in just three years.


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