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.