That brutal blank space where passion does not roam

You get home at an ugly hour.  She calls as soon as you get through the door: can you come over? she says.

You do.

Her youth shines beneath her tears when she answers your knock on her door.  She’s so distraught, she doesn’t mind you are totally blasted–hardly notices even.  Why is your shoulder the one she cries on when she has quarreled with her beloved?

There’s never been any passion between us no matter how hard we’ve tried, just this wistful longing like cold fingers that grope you in the dark.

Published in: on August 5, 2009 at 12:34 pm  Leave a Comment  

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