Cracks

We make love

in the middle of the day, leave the lights

on. But we are only pretending

to be brave, wrap the covers around

our limbs. Leave nothing

exposed.

After, get dressed

under the blankets, fold ourselves

back into layers of clothing. Bra, t-shirt,

shorts, he still doesn't know

about the line of freckles that stretch

from my shoulder blade to bellybutton.

Sometimes, he mumbles

I love you, doesn't mean it though,

refuses to look me in the eye, focuses

a little too far

to one side.

I'm not always sure

what I'm doing there, amongst his strewn

mess, his faded blue sheets, distract myself

counting cracks in the walls.