Romance Was Not Our Muse
Romance was not our muse, he types
Not writes his farewells before each morning -
A simple 'Till tomorrow' left by cooling sheets.
We started as lovers, before we were friends
Speaking in touches instead of thoughts
Every night he clouded our secrecy
With cigarette smoke, an ashtray beneath my bed,
A counter of the days we were spent.
But a playful joke turned bittersweet, I slipped
My favourite glinting stud, a gift
In his pocket lining, finding instead a reminder
Of sin and silent lives, a ticket
To home and back to reality.
In dawn’s light and an empty bed, I wrapped
Bruised red lips around his fading cig, enjoying
The lingering taste of him and his ashy breath.
Romance was not our muse, I type
Not write my farewells before the morning -
A simple 'Good-bye' left by cooling sheets.
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