The Affair
Evening left you signaling the chime
The witness standing back in your eyes,
Pin shut lips
Words without a shot glass
Pouring freely down vacant streets.
Pages of the past hanging from the eave
Dancing the drunkard's lullaby,
falling from shoe tops.
Fingers twirling busy bees
In the palms of honey cups.
The empty barrel of the pen
Inked, in the letter left
Sleeping next to the wine.
This writing is familiar, you wrote it.
A love letter sealed
with slivers,
Post dated to a place long passed.
Sinewy paper placed neatly in script,
On the welcome mat to nowhere.
Souls infused through creased air, protest
Each breathe
peeling the pages,
Your blue wraparound dress.
Consenting the satisfaction of knowing, there
Across the hall is your door, uncloaked
leading to your bed,
This is also my bed.
Rendezvous hanging like stale pipe smoke,
Where clothes splash ripples in absinthe sheets.
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