every time we made love
i would take off my life like a coat
fold it neatly over a chair
like I expected to return to it in the morning.
and that is no way to make love.
every time you would kneel before me
and scrabble me out
of the folds of my cloth, i would absorb
every nuance of your face and gesture of your hands.
when my eyes should have been closed in prayer.
every time you shook and gasped
i would lift your ass in to the air
and dig my nails into its soft expanses
and die a little. A little at a time.
die slow. be pretty. rehearse your sainthood nightly.
the lies we told each other
endure more now, than these truths.