His fingertips begged the door forward,
Deadlatch cocking like the hammer of a gun,
Barrel pointing accusingly
At his head, but only in his mind.
Inside, a radio hissed indifferently,
Keeping away the awkward silence
And circular self-criticism
That follow indecision.
She was splayed across the table
Like a mis-strewn peninsula,
Her supple features were made subtle,
Under unsympathetic plastic.
While he paced the night away outside,
She had waited here for him,
Quiet, patient, uncomplaining,
But then again, she had no choice.
And, of course, neither did he.
Everything was as it should be;
A whole night of weary walking
Had landed him back in this room.
The sun’s rays, uninvited,
Creeped in like a wartime gas.
He covered up his sleepless window panes;
This was no sight for the sun to see.
And with an air of excitement and surrender,
He removed her from her artificial wrap,
Spread her apart in a razorblade ritual
And consumed her crystalline curves
Filed under: verse