Sprawled over human stained sheets,
we bled our conviction into the bed coils,
And when we lifted the blanket
the scent rose like uncorking
a bottle of twenty year old wine.

It was mid-day,
the sun dust betrayed us
leaving smudges on the coffee table.
The oak tanned in a nudity
our sins would never allow.

If there was nothing here for him
except eggs and a cold shower
he wouldn't be so nervous,
fumbling his parts into clothing
that didn't seem to fit him anymore.
I realized he'd come out of this a new man,
Reborn beneath the figure eight neon sign,
Graced by sand paper linen then,
Christened by forty watts of dim light.

Kissing places of me
he had missed in squandering,
like reminiscing cake's frosting
attempting to reincarnate
the delicacy of the dessert itself,
barely aware of the static
fuming from the T.V. screen.

They said he was a typical man,
Like he was just a sketch
on a pad of God's paper, Some botched attempt at art That He decided not to erase right away.

I wonder, Am I the other woman?
Does his heart patter all the faster in her arms?
Does he not know how to handle himself in front of her?
Is their love as fresh and enticing
as a peach ripe enough,
but not yet picked from the tree?

Everyone is the other man
or woman,
because there is always
a first then the rest follows
like separate branches
trailing off the trunk of a tree.

We can love that other woman
like we love that millionth sunset
When our eyes finally recognize
the magnitude of our dependency
on this star.
We can love that other man
like we love our second child.

He takes his time in leaving me,
but I feel that I am leaving him,
because I hesitate on asking him to stay.
I knew that all he wanted was
to tell that other woman
this time he'd remain away.