The last time
was in the en-suite bathroom;
a wretched, accidental collision
in full view of the purple counterpane
and the torn loneliness of the antique bed.
The damp-freckled mirror bore witness
to frantic, tear-drenched kisses
as hands traced half-clothed contours
and fingers mapped crevices
that had lain untouched for months.
Fumbling in the heat of our howling,
in the suffocating sand of our gulping sobs,
we scrambled, trying desperately
to grasp the absolute death
of all that we knew.
Cradled in that granite womb;
out of the grief of our blown-glass past
and the furnace of an uncertain future
we traced the ancient shapes
of everything we were about to lose.