A contract was made
And had to be fulfilled.
Just a limited term
No more than a test.
A “perhaps” was given,
And a firm “no children now”
Which set the nerves at ease.
They rise up now,
Tingling, clawing, burning,
All over a dinner.
It is just a meal,
Simple, short.
Pretty little dishes
Just like pretty little words.
Yet there are the nerves rising.
A cup is held
But not yet drank from.
She asks of this,
Provides loving assurances
And gives a laugh too.
“It’s just wine, silly.”
Yes, just wine, and no more.
So a sip is taken,
Then more still
And with the wine
The nerves are drowned.
The death is gradual
Slow and almost imperceptible,
A pleasant buzzing numbness
Building up overagreeably.
The guard, normally so zealous,
Lays broken and torn down.
The nerves are not missed.
She is far too close,
With a voice far too sweet.
The words aren’t parsed
But they captivate wholly,
And the gentle touches too
Cloying, confusing
Edging the affair on
Far past the simple contract.
Yet the nerves are still dead.
Only a hand rouses them
And other things too,
Sliding down far too far.
Limbs are weak, and wits too
To weak to provide a fight
Though one is wanted
As the nerves are born anew.
