On the Floor

The only time I felt you loved me
was that time, that one time
on the floor of your room
when our daughter slept
on the bed.

You poured your love into me,
looked me in the eyes and drained
yourself into me, your willing vessel
with no barriers or grudges
from the past.

Perhaps freer, knowing my body
would not reproduce that event
that laid on the bed sleeping
while milk poured from my breast
and semen poured
from your balls.

In the end, we laid together
spent and limp. Sweat made us
wet as a Spring rain, our skin
flushed and red as a Florida sunset.
The Sun rose.

Who knew, when you said,
“I love you,” you were talking
to yourself?