Your crinkled work boots ease
through the door. We peck.
It’s quarter past three; the arrow insists
today still putters. Like the mud
you track on these tiles
I sponge, the finality in your words
grate. Must you ask, “How was your day?”
I hear the knob wind
in your shower, it cranks. My hands wrench
beneath the kitchen faucet. Streams of dirt
coast down the drain. A pair;
barren trees shrivel beyond our window.
I recall one spring upon our callow
gaze, cherry blossoms
in the breeze.
I remember green grass
our linked silhouettes.
There we doted on
delicate petals, cherished
the midair marvels
like midnight stars clothed
We kissed on empty stomachs
until the sun rays
Now you shout
from the living-room,
when is supper ready.
Categories: Sex & Sweet Nothings