In carnal hour, windows lock above a collage of intoxicated napkins &
discarded cocktail straws, in the same craving gaze as always
when our hurried lives cross in the after-hours; each of us
bleeding our souls into frothy red plastic cups,
early morning eyes yearning
for a whisper, a heart to hold,
a mouth to touch, a moment of oblivion.
The girl is but a chore at your side.
She tosses platinum locks and talks
of herself, madder lips oiled and fleeting,
windows tinted a vain shade of green.
You laugh politely at something she says,
regard your watch, absolve yourself.
I am already waiting on the avenue as you come to me,
palms exposed, a smile much like one of the cat
in the story where a rabbit was running late:
bright and crescent as our keeper's light.
In a fiery ritual our mouths clash
like famished lions, savage and
mighty in their ferocity.
Such is the sacrament of our desire:
instinctive, impassioned, insatiable.
Tomorrow, I will leave you sleeping.
There will be no telephone calls,
no maudlin promises of love;
only soft whispers of memory, your flesh
disappearing into mine as the night settled with violins
upon the remnants of a new departure.