A quiet night,
held by that groaning bed frame,
It betrays me again,
The walls suddenly paper thin,
I came to fuck but all I did was make love,
Should bitterness, lust, hatred, always hide their cruel, pure grace?
My steel beliefs and dull actions at odds,
Every uttered word is blunted
When I finished I thought. Had I smudged the ink with my palm?
The stiff vigor of my intent deflated,
left illegible, shapeless, and flaccid.
The last one, left forever on the shelf,
Above the bed which loudly protests,
We would roll off and endure the hard floor,
But I press my finger to your lips and slow,
I whisper “I love you” and feel nothing more.