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.



Hello there!


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