Bubbles from chilled champagne
and effervescent laughter
rising up from his depths
into the nape of her neck
as he licks salty sweat
and bites down
without breaking skin.
The marathon of touches
gentle, deliberate,
teasing, tingling.
Hips moving
in sacred rhythm
to synchronized beat.
Final collapse.
Deflated sighs
before the spooning
and into the arms
of Morpheus.
She wakes alone
in tangled sheets
like every other morning
in this empty house.
No body next to hers.
No champagne bucket
anywhere in sight.
No crystal glasses
on the bedside table.
No morning note
on the pillow.
It must have
been a dream,
another taunt
like others before.
He is never
coming home.
(He would if he could,
but he probably can’t.)
This much she knows
Animal sounds
escape her lips
as she claws
at the top sheet
with unbridled despair,
shaking it
as if to death.
She stops mid-snarl,
blinking her eyes
at the pink,
faded from red,
men’s briefs
she sees
in her left hand --
like a valentine.
They belong to him.
His magic briefs
he swears he will
keep forever.
She sits perfectly still
Clutching the pink.
Somewhere
between her racing heart
and silence,
between prayer and doubt,
fact and fiction,
war and peace
the smell of bacon frying
drifts up from the kitchen.
He is home.
NightWing Publications