Our bed was made from desert sand,
soft as whispers;
I wonder how many lovers
lay upon the sheets -
the ones you brought,
stumbled and delved
between fleshy thighs, pink with lust.
I bet you could name every broken spring,
that dug into my back,
that curved my spine.
Or was it only her?
Her name still lingers between the sheets.
The walls are worn from lies
and the paint peels from affection.
Smoke rings filtered from both your lips, stain the ceiling
and when your friends visit;
they rest on my persian rug and gossip tales of melancholy.