Sprawled over human stained sheets,
we bleed our conviction into bed coils.
When we lifted the blankets,
the scent rose like uncorking
a bottle of twenty year old wine.
It was midday,
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 anymore.
I realized he'd come out of this a new person.
Reborn under a figure eight neon light,
gracing the sand paper linen
by the forty watt night lamp.
Kissing the places of me
he missed in squandering,
like reminiscing cake's frosting
attempting to reincarnate
the delicacy of the dessert itself,
barely recognizing the static
fuming on the T.V. screen.
They said he was a typical man,
that he was just another scribble
on the paper that God drew
and couldn't erase right away.
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 woman
or man,
because there was always
a first then the rest followed
like separate branches
trailing off a tree.
We can love that other man
like we love that millionth sunset
that our eyes finally understand
the magnitude of our dependency
on this star.
We can love that other woman
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.
Gold trophy winner
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