Secret Lover

By now,
you are aloft, soaring through
whispering clouds as I tend
to your memory,
your scent,
my stained and matted sheets,
filaments of hair, the toothbrush
I keep for you.

I press your towel
to my face
as visions return
abruptly,
mirrored images
of you behind me
thrusting and thrusting.

By now,
your heart has settled,
your lungs, easing their heaving
gasps, exhale as you
withdraw from your pocket the dainty
box, black and luxurious.  

Alone
in your seat, peering,
glancing, craning your neck over
headrests, certain at last to go
unnoticed, you open it, studying like
a schoolboy the small, glistening
spheres still wet from insertion.

“These,” you said, “will make
your screams split
the heavens.”

Then, you stirred the tiny eggs
with your stick till I tinkled,
tangled legs trembling,
weeping, exhausted…

my raptured soul,
our milky emulsion,
your oval trinkets;
you would not wash them.

By now,
you have raised them
to your face,
your nostrils inhaling
their fragile fragrance,
eyes closed, whispering clouds soar
by your window,

my voice
a soft echo
in a cavernous sky.