Those relationships that start in a day and last for a week
meant to release the fatigue of not having been loved in so long
and having to have bit your tongue from saying I love you one too many times…

They’re filled with sleepless nights of love scented texts,
hushed voices, and shallow moans drifting over the phone;
making each other yearn to be fucked
and held,
and heard,
and known by another.

This fatigue, however, lifts at its own pace.
Whether that be the length of time needed to undo
a sweater by a single thread
or be it the swiftness of crashing waves on bedrock -
it brings you back to your senses one realization at a time.

You’ve reread the messages you’ve sent.
You’ve groaned over the racy photos you’ve taken.
You notice the smell of the sweat stained sheets that have clung to you
throughout the the summer nights and…

and together you both know, one day, almost in tandem,
though so far apart from one another,

that this is not it.

This was a spa day.

How silly you would need to be to fall in love with the masseuse.