I wrote this poem in the point of view from one of my characters who's the other woman to an older man. (She's 26 and he's 50).

Attention from a married man,

He holds me like no one else can.

Showered in gifts and affection,

Pretty little jewels added to my collection.

But soon the cracks begin to spread,

Guilt gnaws the edges of my bed.

I see the truth I tried to fight,

His love was never truly mine,

He’ll vanish when the thrill is gone,

I’ll dial him sobbing, dusk to dawn.

I’ll beg, I’ll ask what I did wrong,

As if love lived in his touch all along.

“Weren’t we the same, wild and untethered?”

No. I was just his stormy weather.

But he’ll hang up without a sound,

Unmoved as I crash to the ground.

I was never more than a passing whim,

A secret carved from shadow and sin.

He has his wife, his other women,

And a home stitched with lies and warm linen.