omar?

in the heat
of the moment,
when the stars
and planets are about
to align,
when the cake has
risen, and the eclipse
is about to occur,
she screams out
someone else's name,
her finger nails
digging into your back,
nearly drawing
blood, she says it
not once, or twice,
but three times.
omar, omar, omar.
somehow you go along
with this, trying
hard to figure out
who the hell she's
imagining you to be,
but you say nothing,
not wanting to spoil
the moment for her,
or for you, for
that matter.