The Other Woman, I could easily be perfection in bone and flesh.
My married man, you are a compulsion, a need, an obsession, a wrong so right and an intentional stroke of smudged paint on an otherwise flawless canvas.
Is it because Forbidden love is sweeter than most kind or have we just been conditioned not to believe otherwise?
You unbutton my blouse fast, our bare legs tied together in ways too many; a lot like our complicated situation. Your fingers gently caress my naked back moving swiftly between my curves and legs and my slender neck where your lips break as you taste my soft skin. I bite you softly, just enough to let you know that I am resilient, but not enough to make you forget that I am a lady with a beating heart.
I sit by the window, painted coffee mug for company, wearing a shirt you once left behind, summoning scars of love from our “afternoons” together.
Like most lovers, I crave for rainy days. Rainbows and thunder and cold that can soften even the strongest desire to do the right thing does not interest me. I crave for rains because they make you stay a while longer than you really ought to.
And then on those rainy days, I feel like a happy memory and not just a weak moment.
I might be a weak moment, but I am a weak moment with passion so hot that I am not frightened to burn in hell.