The morning after was cold.
I shielded my eyes as the blinds cut
open; scratched glass gives
way to a beautiful summer morning.
Avoiding my pupils at all cost, you
scurry out of bed and mechanically toss
your clothes atop that slender frame
just in time to say,
I should go. I can't disagree.
I haven't the conviction.
The sores on my arm have all but blackened;
bruises beneath the surface of my
skin retell the night like a lost tape:
we came home, we made love,
we rode a euphoric steel railway in a lumpy,
benign mess of an evening.
Now it is morning. Birds are chirping,
children play games in the street.
Light shames to shine on our battered faces.
Dec 22, 2012
Dec 22, 2012 at 3:32 PM UTC
The morning after was cold.
I shielded my eyes as the blinds cut
open; scratched glass gives
way to a beautiful summer morning.
Avoiding my pupils at all cost, you
scurry out of bed and mechanically toss
your clothes atop that slender frame
just in time to say,
I should go. I can't disagree.
I haven't the conviction.
The sores on my arm have all but blackened;
bruises beneath the surface of my
skin retell the night like a lost tape:
we came home, we made love,
we rode a euphoric steel railway in a lumpy,
benign mess of an evening.
Now it is morning. Birds are chirping,
children play games in the street.
Light shames to shine on our battered faces.
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