Sad Labels:
lovers
,
retrospect
His virtue was his vice. How it crumpled him up to show the wrinkles that were always there. Shoving all the words too close. Where they would meet against their will. Becoming strangers finally. Changes rubbing hard on the condoms between love and sex.
He was coloring with both hands. Always telling me there was no picture. He was writing on both sides of the page. WIth words he'd never have. Little pills taking over.
I saw the bottom then. So perfectly clear. I took the rose off of its stem. Counting the petals as they fell.
One at a time.
Echoing the questions I had never asked him.
As I couched in my chair morning came eventually. But the night before had never really happened.