No Strings

Conversation sizzled
on the screen.
Pictures lie,
but she pushed that aside.
 
Dinner was cold.
She continuously choked
on her words.
He was easy and cool.
Talkative.
 
She let him lead her  
out of her comfort zone
where there was nothing to do
in the awkward tension
of the hotel room
than touch.
 
Kisses were empty.
Mushy.
Chemistry was lacking.
His lukewarm caress  
going no deeper
than the surface of her skin.
 
He is full of awe and compliments
for her skills.
His prowess
is high above the bar.
He reaches further,
goes deeper,
lasts longer.
Her cries can be heard
in the hallway.
 
They turn and twist,
exploring,
pushing into the sheets  
made wet
by the sweat of their exertions.
Quite the acrobatic event
to observe.
 
Still, she felt nothing.
The hours they spent after,
naked,
talking,
were more comfortable.
Free of judgement.
 
Still, no post coital sweetness.
No exuberant crackle
filled with the electricity  
that comes after lightning strikes.
 
He talked.
She understood.
They kissed in gratitude,
and said goodbye...  
 
and then she cried.
Something was missing.
He filled her up,
but left her empty.
 
He's left with a taste for her.
She reads his messages,
smiling at his sincerity,
considering a second try,
Then turns away.
 
It's no fault of his.
She simply has no wish
to walk down that cold  
lonely corridor again.