When the lights turn off you’re mine. There’s no questioning it; it’s a fact. My friends think I’m a fool for letting you go with the first light of the dawn but I don’t care. It’s what we do best; become one till sunshine washes my room with yellow light and then quietly walk away, lips sealed to keep the secret.

I’ve told you time and time again, I don’t care who you spend your days with. I don’t care if you spend them with other women, if you work all day long or if you do nothing at all, lazing around on your parents’ couch. It doesn’t bother me to know anything about your daily routine, your hobbies and habits, the people in your life.

I know all your nightly rituals and that’s what matters.

I know you only wear a tie because I find it hot. I know you like to take things slowly but when your passions’ riled up you don’t take no for an answer. I know what brand you smoke and how you like your whiskey. Why should I care about your coffee too? It’s another woman’s problem, not mine.

I’m your dirty little secret and you’re my forbidden affair. We never played the happy couple simply because we knew we weren’t one; we’d never be one. And it doesn’t bother me. I don’t feel some undying need to bare the title of your girlfriend. In fact I do not wish to be anything more than what we are now. Knowing that you’re mine after sunset is enough; I don’t seek romance.

I don’t miss or crave being the adorable little couple that holds hands and whispers “I love you” every three seconds. I know you love me, I can feel it in the way you hold me, I sense it when you look at me. Keep the big declarations for the little girls you play with during daytime; I don’t do daycare and neither do you.

You see that’s why I chose you. You get me, you get this. You understand that it’s better this way. We don’t have to put on masks and pretend that we want to spend our lives together. We don’t have to act like we don’t fuck other people. Fake love isn’t what we do. I don’t need to know your favorite colour or what you had for dinner. I know how to touch you, how to love you. Isn’t that enough?

We can escape heartbreak by hiding behind the moonlight because the more you know, the harder it gets. I could never bare the thought of a wife or children and I know you can’t stand images of other men touching me flashing through your mind. I don’t want to deal with a broken family, you don’t want to deal with my identity crises. So what?

Spend your days however the fuck you want. Cheat on your wife with your secretary, take your son to football practice, bring your sick mother flowers. Go to work, get back home, fight with your daughter, scold your father, crash your neighbor’s car. Do your thing and let me do mine. Let me take my pills and visit my psychiatrist, fuck around with my childhood friend and pretend I’m not jealous of my brother’s perfect life.

What we do under the sun doesn’t matter.

When the light’s on it’s easy to pretend, to put on a smile and a happy act and fake perfection. It’s like a second nature. So used we are to lying to ourselves and everyone around us that we don’t even realize it anymore. And yet we all have a different mask for work, for home, for our friends and for our lovers. We keep pretending we’re something, when in reality, we’re nothing. So no, I don’t care about that ‘something’ you want to be.

As long as your nights are devoted to me, you can be whoever you want. And when the sun sets you’re mine; nothing more, nothing less.

Author: Matina Tsouma

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