Some days I'm in love with her.
Other days, I'm in love with him.
She is legs.
He is morning stubble.
She is purple streaked sunrises and moonlight shadows on sandy beaches.
He is the red and white blaze trails of car lights in the night and the constant murmur of thousands of voices.
She laughs and the sun shines.
He cries and the world stops.
She runs a finger over my lips and I sizzle with anticipation. She leans forward and we meet, soft and smooth and hungry and desperate.
He tugs gently on my shirt and I flush with heat. He smiles and pulls me tight, strong and fragile and careful and rough.
I long, I weep, I fear. I cannot have both, but I cannot have neither. I worry that they'll disappear into the twilight where none of us belong, and I'll be left to drown in the echoes of their touches.