The clock’s hand falls
Like a slow-motion decapitation
Can you hear the masked victim’s moan?
Will it wake the sleeping children?
The ice attempts to elope with some aged scotch out of boredom.
Long live the happy couple.
We lie together bobbing our heads in disbelief
like two chastised puppies after pissing on the carpet.
Tonight, we were both covetous concubines
shifting our bodies, creating amorous lines,
Proving that this house still is a home to vampires and addicts craving for
some substance other than the emptiness of space and the longevity of time.
As your tongue becomes dissatisfied with the after taste of bad scotch,
your cheeks signal that it is time to move on to thawed goodbyes.
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