When you were lying
there, on your back on
the yoga deck, knees
pulled in and fallen
to one side
with the sun slanting
onto you and you
bare-chested and you
in only shorts, I knew
how you would look
on some sunny morning
between wild fucking
and orange juice. When
I saw your tight stomach
with its perfect
navel I tried to pretend
I’d already had you,
like your body was old
news. I would want
you less, I think,
if you were my husband
whose skin and cock are
perfect, who loves me
differently than I
imagine you would.