she had touched herself so
tenderly, so
lovingly, that we were nearly fooled...
but voyeurism lends itself
quite nicely to observation, you see, and
we realized that we had failed.


he whispered quietly,
layer upon layer of sticky sentiment
dripping from his lips to her spine;
she found no joy in his body, his
eyes, his words.

another lost battle:
another failure.


was this the sight
we were intended to inherit, this
verbose pleasure, this
vulgar need?

(no. it never was.)

she died once he was out
the door, then closed
the window blinds.