Last
Chance Romance.
The
pasta on the terrace had grown cold,
failing
to entice through the open window
where
sunshine had become scarce as jewels.
The
muffled voice, the film that had detained us
continued
painting stories to no one,
while
wine took off our Wednesday masks
and
your curves led us towards a Tuscan bed,
when
sweet irony tripped us over the cat.
He tried
to look as if he wasn’t there,
kissing
his fur with his meat-eater’s tongue.
We
claimed the slippy terracotta’s
serendipity
shipwrecked convention
making
love urgent, there, before the stair claimed us
each
step, up and down, declining to make peace.
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