I am sorry

I
Am
Sorry

So, you want me to say --

"I'm sorry that I wrote about you in my poem."

OK. I guess I owe you that.
Maybe more.

I admit it was you,
I was thinking of,
when I wrote it.

Admittedly, it was your mouth,
I was picturing,
covering with my mouth,
your tongue,
my tongue was playing with.

Yes, it was your legs,
I was writing about,
caressing with my hands,
entwining with my legs.

I'll confess, It was your breasts,
I was remembering,
tasting with my mouth,
your nipples I had,
excited with my tongue.

I'll grant you that it was your pussy,
I was recalling,
exploring first with my fingers,
and then with my tongue.

I'll not conceal that it was your mouth,
I was reliving feeling,
milking my dick,
your tongue licking it to engorgement.

I'll concede that it was your ass,
I treasured,
gripping with both hands,
as my dick entered into your cunt.

I'll claim that it was,
an invention,
in my writing that,
you surrendered,
completely,
in joining your body with mine.

I will deny there was any truth,
in composing that,
your fingernails left,
blooding tracks,
on my back,
or that they created bruises,
on my butt cheeks,
in holding my pelvis and hips,
against yours,
as we climaxed together.

I will freely acknowledge that it was,
a fantasy, a fabrication, a figment
of my imagination.

All that,
if that is what you want me to do.

In my defense :
I did not use your name.
Only I knew it was you.
Until you saw yourself in my words.

Why did I do it?

Because it was the truth.
The truth of my physical love for you.
I wanted to share that with others.

I suppose I should have let you read it first.

I'm sorry that I wrote about you in my poem.