I hurried home from work,
We could have lunch or we could fuck,
No time for both,
A quickie – sitting on the edge of bed,
Sheets filthy and damp with come,
Wastebasket overflowing with used gloves,
Your bags packed by the door,
The foresty smell of sex our blanket,
My legs spread,
Your hand in me,
Once more before you fly away,
I breathe “hit me”,
You growl, your hand shoving my chest,
Finding each old bruise,
Reminding me of us,
The smell of tussling so quick inside,
Always inside,
Your other hand inside me grinding,
Like separating wheat from chaff,
Separating my heart from my chest,
Flying out of my cunt,
You missed your plane.