And each morning I wake up,
A bruise and a shift of the sky,
Covering you.

Wondering whether to stay or go.
You are talking with your friend,
That we fucked last night,
Your words traveling like something warm to eat in the morning,
The steam rising and I can’t join in,
I feel left out; a problem with threesomes.
And I feel left out without knowing the context of each vowel,
All local gossip, and I am from 600 miles away.

She leaves the room, the house,
And we are two lovers discussing.
Murmuring words, slippery sounds,
I’m not so unhappy with it,
Not so alone in some corner in another universe with no stars,
But there is a point where we need planning,
And that time was 96 hours ago.

Later you ask me how that love and fucking thing is working for me;
Nothing is different,
I still wake up and eye you warily,
You lie, but you call it selective,
You fuck me sometimes tenderly and sometimes not,
Your actions are of love, or maybe practiced seduction,
I can’t tell which….and does it matter?

The difference between love and seduction is blurred,
Like a line of trees through a car window,
The tall poplars a flurry of speckled trunks.
Your caresses and gifts say,
That you have done this before to get through an opening in the heart,
To travel through some landscape where fucking becomes bigger,
Does it matter what your impetus is?

The last day here, I wake up,
A bruise and a shift of the sky,
Covering us.
Wondering whether to stay or go.
Your mouth opens,
Words rising in the good-bye air,
Settling over my bruised flesh,
My ass and thighs, a tender expanse of marks,
The story of the collision of love and fucking.