Your Hand Would Gently Reach

A classic sonnet

Your hand would gently reach to touch my face
and slowly trace my neck, my breasts, my hips
while you were dreaming of another place,
another woman's arms and tender lips.
And though with her we both knew you belonged,
that as your fingers played within my hair,
your thoughts were filled with her, her scent, her song,
I lied and told myself I didn't care.
But what we dared begin was doomed to die—
the soil where we planted was so thin.
The only rain that fell came from my eyes
to water that which we had sown in sin.
And now, there's nothing left but barren land
and traces of this dirt upon my hand.