I am once again relegated to the wet spot;

The dampness between my legs chafes

As does the realization that sex is not enough.

I search for sleep and answers amid the ravaged sheets,

While your head rides comfortably on soft pillows;

Your throat down-shifts a snore.

My attempt to drowse is overridden by

The rumbles of noise and of thoughts.

Sex has become our most productive form

Of communication,

But the transmission ends with the last sigh.

In the death throes of the afterglow

I find myself unfulfilled on a level

An orgasm cannot reach.

You know all my secret places;

With you I am a well-oiled

Highly responsive machine --

But machines have no souls.

I shift from the wet spot on the bed

And on my cheek.

Sleep finally overtakes me and

I dream of destinations unknown.