i do not want a man

to sulk in his arm chair with a

cigarette in one hand and a

beer in the other,

the two of us in contemplative

silence forever. but

i am told

that

it is the best case scenario

that maybe he loves me at

all and does not touch

me and does not break

me when he looks over

me and chooses not to speak.

a man who comes home to sit

in the living room at all

and a man who will be satisfied

with only one beer every night

and will tolerate me

in the bed

every other.

perhaps that could be my life, or

ours,

rather.

what is love, anyway,

if not a constant hunger?

when we are in the bed we

vowed to remain loyal to forever, i

will always crave more,

but for what,

i will wonder.