His n’ Her Toothbrushes

In minted respiratory,
Their breath as stale
As the love they never make.
The Wedding Planner could have
Designed the Titanic deckchairs,
Three colours wed shred the white.

They dream of sex with strangers, or
Lay awake listening to the voices
Which river run through the vortex
Of dimly lit rooms that house anonymous faces.

Far from closer to each other,
But close enough to call it marriage,
Lost in small spaces, an Alpha centauri
Of unspoken words lodged in key holes.

Pillows are only feathers of no flight -
What became of the will to fight?
Hands shake not to greet, but to close
Eventide chapters with trembling imprecision.

She finds it strange how quickly
The bath water runs cold……