My face was not flushed

Red with anticipation, strong and hard and full and embarrassed,

It was not different. 

It had not changed from the day before.

my eyebrows arched identically to the hour previous with no new fold of worry in between them and my eyes the same ocean blue,

 no tears mixing and blurring the colour until it became murky and dark like a swamp filled with dirt and lacklustre disappointment.

My lips were not quivering, parted slightly with the mixture of sweat and saliva taking the colour from my lipstick.

There was no difference in the way I spoke his name.

Not to him.

To him, my waist silhouetted the same shape, the curve between my back and my legs was identical to the way he had imagined it, my breasts sat upon my chest without any difference to what had run through his thoughts.

There was no change. 

To him, my clothes fell off my body to show him something he had anticipated,  something so familiar which he had never seen, which nobody had ever seen.

His eyes drifted over the similarities, drifted because they didn’t linger.  Not long enough to tell the similarities were not similar. 

Instead his eyes closed and his fingers traced my outline,

the same fingers that had typed hours of text and words that meant more to me than they did to him.

  Words that I still read and still believe are more than what they really mean.

The flower i had offered him was wilted, yet white - pure, yet unsure of how to grow and flourish, 

petals folded in on itself and no watering with my own words could fix the way it shy’d from the sun. 

But his words, those that meant more to me than they did to him,

pulled it up and forced the sun onto the frayed petals, 

those which uncurled and allowed themselves to be fooled by the light I believed to be the sun.

But there was difference. 

I was fooled, just like him, but in different ways,

to him, the sun was just light 

to me, it was heat and my face was flushed.