A dusk

stole from an ex-girlfriend,

abstracting

the breadth and fodder

of your mild

and precarious affair

after the tide of evidence

gave a taser

to the weekend’s romp.

Glories much like eyeliner,
the fondness for cash,
are the semantics of flesh,
how lust sabotages
the meditation of the mind,
gets folded hands
to do the felt thing.

You smothered each other
just a few months,
fucked in between cups of
weak libidos and coffee,
mumbled
into each other’s pale ears
the rotting sonnets
of your orgasms.

Habit and guilt obtained,
it took the collective boom
of doing laundry together
to make scowls
of your embraces,
chip the edges
of your kisses.