Thursday, April 14, 2011

Too stupid to be a poem, Poet.

Reason collided with passion. She was again in his bed. Did she have the intention of executing that act with him again? Or were they simply ex-lovers-turned-friends? The entire night was suspect, becoming the subject of much internal discussion, as she polished off her third tea and triple chocolate muffin. Where, if anywhere, was this headed? So much desire, lust and irrational thought was imbedded, in every layer of conversation. Where had he been that day? ‘With a friend’, his response. Leaving it to interpretation, with the potential for over-thought, of who this ‘friend’ was. A lover, a tryst? Or worse, an individual breathing in the same layers of conversation she had once stripped away. This individual, working their way closer to the core of him, which she believed belonged to her, and only her.

The next day flowed a little less well. Dribble still formed at the corner of his mouth, which she said she still liked; he imagined this was because it was a small signal of at least one thing having stayed right.
It seemed that the restless sleep had left thoughts coagulated in his mind, rendering him unable to ask the question of “are we together again?”, to this ex-lover-turned-friend. As she returned the pants he bought her to their nominated place, above her hips and around her waist, he tried to touch her once more. As if nothing had happened the night before, she wriggled away and moved for the door.

Her car started with a cough as he choked down the urge to chase her away. Why had she stayed the night, when she knew full well only wrong could collide with right? Why had she returned to his life, once again penetrating his mind? Now all his thoughts would again be owned by and revolve around, this ex-lover-turned-friend.

Over a glass of beer he finally confirmed. She’d lost the right, the right to be the only one, that night she stayed the night.