Another

Sprawled over human stained sheets, we bled our conviction into the bed coils, And when we lifted the blanket the scent rose like uncorking a bottle of twenty year old wine. It was mid-day, the sun dust betrayed us leaving smudges on the coffee table. The oak tanned in a nudity our sins would never allow. If there was nothing here for him except eggs and a cold shower he wouldn't be so nervous, fumbling his parts into clothing that didn't seem to fit him anymore. I realized he'd come out of this a new man, Reborn beneath the figure eight neon sign, Graced by sand paper linen then, Christened by forty watts of dim light. Kissing places of me he had missed in squandering, like reminiscing cake's frosting attempting to reincarnate the delicacy of the dessert itself, barely aware of the static fuming from the T.V. screen. They said he was a typical man, Like he was just a sketch on a pad of God's paper, Some botched attempt at art That He decided not to erase right away. I wonder, Am I the other woman? Does his heart patter all the faster in her arms? Does he not know how to handle himself in front of her? Is their love as fresh and enticing as a peach ripe enough, but not yet picked from the tree? Everyone is the other man or woman, because there is always a first then the rest follows like separate branches trailing off the trunk of a tree. We can love that other woman like we love that millionth sunset When our eyes finally recognize the magnitude of our dependency on this star. We can love that other man like we love our second child. He takes his time in leaving me, but I feel that I am leaving him, because I hesitate on asking him to stay. I knew that all he wanted was to tell that other woman this time he'd remain away.