Tonight, he has no poem
Sadness clings to me like the lingering scent
of cigarettes and cheap perfume.
The piquant air of desperation
tastes of bitter almonds upon my lips.
I adorn myself in sorrow's benign braids
and my lover strips me bare of lace, denim,
and St. Theresa's little flowers.
I consider his redolence; when he shaves,
he won't splash on the cologne I gave him.
Sometimes he doesn't shave at all.
I like that best.
He needs his alone time, I suppose, in his den.
Reflecting on his military years. And those prostitutes.
I see their ghostly figures in peasant tops & torn skirts;
they turn and sneer at me.
At times he looks at me so intently that I feel
completely open, without secrets or shame.
So deep into me... I imagine he must be thinking
about the day when he'll have to hurt me.
(Photo by: Marco Sanges)