Second Hand
Martine Beauvais
Photo by Tenor
He came to her in the night;
& while faithful in his familiarity,
he never quite kept her warm.
With him she was well acquainted;
as acquainted as her lungs with air or her veins to live blood.
He slept next to her every night and although he was her familiar;
She could never become acquainted with his emptiness.
The elusive promise of his companionship never failed to disappoint her.
And in some dysfunctional way, this disappointment became the familiar thing
in which she scavenged for shelter.
But how long until it became too little and no longer enough?
How long until their familiarity with one another became an excuse for barbed words and venomous glances?
How much longer would their infatuation breathe before it came to its inevitable end?
It was an intimate battle with which she was familiar.
The time to spar came like the setting sun;
Just when she thought she was safe from her past and could find rest.
The only familiar thing she knew during these hours was a lie relived;
a love, secondhand.