She paints walls
with anguish
blended
from murky emotions between them,
coats the ceiling with shades of his past mistake.  
Befuddled,
his clinical genius
finds no path for them to take.

She flaunts neglect
for all to see
so he allows no one to enter.
She erects
invisible mountains
for him to climb
with uncharted trailheads beckoning.  
He trudges daily
through fallen ruins of past quarrels,
wandering unmapped terrain
in search of their secret stream
of lost love.

Metal softly clinks on ceramic.
Fingers joggle embossed grip,
elevate blades toward moistened hide.

Darkness covers the corner
opposite antique coaster bed
disheveled by fitful sleepers.  

Her hair, twirled into tangles
flows on the pillow, nasal noises
mask the music of his movements.

Any light might arouse her,
awakening her to revive
last night's squabble.

Their endless feud
over contentions long forgotten  
encircles their days.

Blades glide over chin and cheeks.  
Shaving quietly in darkness
avoids anger in the morning.

A coin has two sides:
one, copper bright,
reflecting honey-lit tones,
the other, dark,
hiding under shadow.

A woman, too:
honey-flecked side,
shadows drape her back.

I walk near her, keen to her scent.
Darkness and honey,
mingling bouquet of a woman.

Your unique omelets
Fascinate me. Like your ***
Always exotic

Dishes clang against the sink
Loud reverberations of ceramic against metal

Anger defies the covenant to fight less
Sealed with tears and kisses

Slippery is this stone of hurt
Lumped in her throat

There is no easy atonement
to distract and soothe

Her rant finds no audience
Memories fade of what stoked this fire

Morning comes late
as clouds drape below the sky
and cast disquiet
upon two anxious strangers
aware that they are not near
their designated drivers.

Last night had evolved
into a ***** romp
perpetrated by salsa dances,
smooth tequila,
accidental bumps,
and spontaneous kisses.

Shoulders simultaneously sear
beneath bed linens
as their thoughts
collide with guilt,
parch their throats and
secrete sweat across their palms.

Tabloid images flash  
across the screens of their minds.
Last night’s exploit
bears consequences,
echoes of lust.

She heard that he’s a poet
and wondered if he would write a poem
about her.

A wave of her
shoulder length strands of pleasure
should flag down nearly any man
with an ounce of testosterone.
She wondered if she had a poem in her hair.

She spoke a few soft words
layered with one of her smiles,
the kind most guys adore
because they don’t know if it means
to come closer or to leave her alone.
Perhaps a poem rested in her smile.

If she had cleavage like Jayne Mansfield
surely he would
form lines about her in his mind
and feel compelled to tell the world
how she captured his lust.
She wished for ******* with a poem in her cleavage.

She touched him.
He seemed open to her arm around his waist.
A poet felt like any other man.
She pressed closer;
perhaps he sensed a poem
in the warmth of her lean figure.

Later in bed,
he stayed close, their legs entangled
unlike anything she could remember.
She wondered if there had been a poem
in her *****.

She wished she smoked
and noticed that he didn’t.
Perhaps if they shared a cigarette
he would be enticed by the drift of the smoke from her lips.
Was there a poem in her sensual exhaling?

He seems so Hemingway,
mysterious, yet open to each moment.
Her mind played his movements
like a video tape recorder.
She wondered if she should write a poem about him?
Was there a poem in this experience?