Setting the Clock

It was Sunday in my head. Catching songs by the hem. Hosting fables of charity. And friends. The games dimished in a sullen huff. We unrolled our beds in a garish flourish. Hearts kilted in tartan garb. And the screech of bagpipes crying song.

He undressed himself uneventfully. As though his clothes were constraint. He wore naked like a terrycloth robe. A humored husband unaware how old he'd become.

He slipped into sex like a thread does through a needle's eye. In steady hands. Knotted tightly at the end. Pointed and hurtful as he slithered through the open ends.

Not to seal the rift, but only to show it still exists.

The alarm went off, but it wss still dark.