He pulled his lips away and asked,
“What a tender time it’s been,
But, darling, I have known the last;
Nowhere there do you fit in.”
My retort with clever spin:
“Little do you know, sweet man,
It is only your chagrin
Which trails behind tonight’s plan.”
As, towards the door, he ran,
I rested hands with pinching pout.
“Your run can never hold your span;
Your breath can never silence shout.”
But what else is the room about?
If not the cavern that he leaves,
If not the lies behind the tout,
If not the tender that he grieves?
But what else lies in hard heart thieves?
If not the empty at her side,
If not the veins the hollow cleaves,
If not the running, fleeing wide?