warm candles on warm walls
a tattered, cosy couch with pants and shirts and cardigans strewn on it
a mirror with a polish soccer scarf draped on the corner
(I’m not sure if it’s an ironic joke between friends or she’s really a football hooligan)
she reaches over me to grab the bottle of wine
I breathe her in.
it’s a healing feeling, to share a bed with a woman you just met
after a lot of lonely nights, drinking wine.
The book shelf is filled with Easton Ellis, Vonnegut, Palahniuk — but it’s the Bukowski that makes my eyes light up
“I actually quit a bullshit job to write a book because of Post Office, you know that?”
“I never published it though”
Her smile is still there
I make love to her, in between sips of wine and small talk,
all I can think about it is pleasing her,
and how good it feels to not have to bullshit,
and I work harder, show her some appreciation for giving me sanctuary on what could have been
a fucked up night
in my bed
I drive home the next morning
On a downer.
Poetic nights like that, are rare — not common
and I’d have to write a poem, this poem, just to relive it.
It doesn’t work.
And if I saw her again,
maybe it wouldn’t be magical
because the passion of strangers
is fueled by the absence contempt of contempt that familiarity reveals.
I want to I make love to her again
in between sips of wine
and small talk,
Because all I can think about it
there’s no bullshit,
yet I’m here —
on this fucked up night
in my bed.