We are sitting across the table as flowers wilt
in a vase painted to remind some vague unconscious
of the season following winter. I think this is
what marriage looks like to the outside observer.
Then I remember the three am press
of your elbows to the small of my back
as you keep me warm against the ocean.
This is not sex. We sleep in the same bed
out of necessity. I think back to
three nights ago. My hips tense. I remember
the tangerine color of hotel lamps
that I have come to associate with eroticism.
I remember imminence of you beneath me in
no act of submission, and
your hands along my back.
Fucking you was drunk like cinnamon and
empty beer cans. It was haze like
knowing you had been before
I saw you with your clothes off.
This is humor now.
And you sit across the kitchen table
where flowers wilt and flies dot this mid-Atlantic afternoon
like messages in bottles washed up on the shore.
Here we are hardly more than what’s forgotten
in the years since we were so much younger.
-"The Morning After" by M.E.S. (via ecrivanity)