My Soliloquy Disgruntled With Love

with love, ma

I made love to a woman in my bed last night.
You were in the living room
You, awkward kneeling, silently praying that we were doing something much holier, much more sacred that planting our tongues and our fingers in each other's temples.
I know you can see it.
My face is looking less like yours with every breast I lay with.
My hands, shaky with a little more dirt that yours, they know the insides of beautiful souls and I've met woman who like to leave their dreams in my palms.
My mouth of which I refuse to ever kiss you with.
I don't want to make you a sinner like me Mother, have you taste the woman I've known in more ways than one.
Dear Mother.
Don't you ever notice the distance between us when we speak?
Our eyes barely know each other.
Our bodies became strangers without our hearts even realizing it.
I'm afraid you might catch her on my breath, maybe pieces of her will be living underneath my tongue and if I speak too quickly, I might spit her out.
I'm afraid you might feel her on my skin when you hold me, even after she's left because some women have a thing of leaving themselves behind, forgetting to take themselves with when they leave.
Mother.
I'm happy now.
I smile.
I love.
I forgive you.
There will come a time when it will be the four of us.
Just like in this poem, we will be in the same room.
Praying for love, together.