I am lost somewhere between night's death and morning's breath.

You will leave when the sun awakens, packing up your overnight bag, even taking your toothbrush. No trace of your time here will remain.

I know I lie with a man who leaves no mark.

You will go back home for the week to be with your family. Your place is not here. You only rent time in my fantasy world.

Our brief encounters are explosive and hurried. You say you love me the most but I know it is not true. I am easily fourth, fifth, or sixth on the list if I am even imprinted on your mind or heart at all. Perhaps I am the unremarkable one, forever forgotten in history. My existence is easily wiped away when you go back to making lunches, tucking in the children, and having dinner with your perfect wife.

I think I can move on until you arrive again and our invisible games resume. We act out our scenes trying to remember where we left off the last time we met. We didn't dare record our permanence, dancing around the edges of reality.

We cannot spend one full day together because that would make it too real. I must be partial—half, quarter, second, fleeting thought. I have one foot on one page, the other on the shaky ground of another, so if our story must quickly be closed I can be tucked away between the crease of today and tomorrow.