I didn't mind the beer belly that grew larger than you belt
the first time I noticed it pushing against my abs while you pushed
my legs apart, in bed, with the sunlight dim from spring's feeble attempts,
and your breath stinking of garlic and tomatoes: we'd just eaten dinner.
I noticed it; recognized the feel of soft flesh like butter sliding around my belly button,
remember even now how you wheezed in exhaustion quicker than normal,
and asked that I "get on top," to your red faced panting.
I minded the fading stiffness you once sported strong
at dawn, at noon, night, and any time I dug a hand deep
past your belt and through your untamed hair.
I minded when your belly got like a saddle I had to
lean on just to ride you without falling off, dared to
press against your discomfort using my full weight
to shove it back in; maybe it would deflate.
I didn't mind the first swelling gut that hugged me like
a flabby blanket, but I minded when you ceased fucking me
like you should.