The smoky voice, crackling
with the coarse rhythm
of an ancient studio recording,
asked the dimly lit room
to turn the lamps down low
and with the smell of
smooth Marlboro cigarettes
lingering after the heat of passion
she felt a quiet flame reignite
that she had thought was lost,
burnt out like the kindled fire
that was her first marriage.
Their silhouetted figures,
glistening with sweat in the moonlight,
sat sticky against the oak headboard;
limp thumbs tangled together.
He ruined that sweet moment,
as most men do,
when he turned to her
and whispered “I love you.”
That was all it took for the sweat
rolling down her chest
to freeze to ice, and soon
she was swimming
in muddied waters.
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