and you called

and you called after one million years. life is brittle death in between your calls. I actually am in a functional relationship. a man finally loves me for what I am. and you called.
nothing happened since last time we spoke. the Earth stopped spinning, the wind stopped blowing, same old, same old.
Is it funny that I'm sitting in my underwear in front of the computer at six am, listening to amy whinehouse? Is it funny that I am writing about you and how water tastes like sand after you and I stopped loving each other?
We decided to be friends. last night was a good buddies night out. watched the game, talked movies, bitched about the writer's strike, environment and elections, just like we always do. we even had a heated argument about artistic integrity in hollywood. all fine with this picture except: why do I smell you on my clothes? why did you touch the back of my arm at 11:47 pm? why did you hug me and told me you loved me? why did you not make love to me?
my man came home from work late. very late. my body was still emanating heat from your embrace. my man and I went to bed and spoke about our days. I failed to tell him that I went out with you. which is to say, I wanted to tell him but stubborn words wouldn't come out of my mouth. we made love. my man and I. which is to say he made love to me. while I was fighting his kiss. his breath fell on my neck. my breath was suspended on your smell on my clothes. his hands kept my face still and he searched for my eyes. closed. cause I was thinking of you.
he enjoyed those minutes of desperation while my mind was back to when you and I were making love like Gods in Olympus. cause when you and I made love, Gods watched and envied.
If only you'd never call again. I could maybe learn to breathe again.