What's To Be Done?

What’s to be done?

After that party, after treating each other like we don’t exist,
or,
When you saw me with that set of legs, breasts and short dress
(I know her name as well as you do), and you pulled at my arm as would a mother instinctively yanking her toddler out of traffic,
But with the kind of fear born of jealousy and rage, rather than that born of love and protection,
Or,
When I saw you were reaching your inevitable point of drunkenness that only a predator could love,
And I pulled your arm as would… well as I had done a few times before... and growled low into your wobbling ear: “enough you lush. Let’s go”
But,
Mostly treating each other like the other did not exist…

After that, my dearest, what is to be done?

The only thing we know, the only tool in our box.

At home, on our sheets or floor or sofa or front lawn,
You will act the jealous, fearful lunatic who thinks she can possess her man and keep him by fucking him like he was all you had left.  (you think correctly, and I am all you have left).
And I act the predator, the only animal that could love your drunk ugly soul (I am, I am, I am that animal)

But for that time, we are the only things that exist for each other in all the universe.