Wistful,
Full of satisfied mystery:
That warm, post-coital smile.
“One is always
The cruellest number,”
She sighs
On a shallow,
Honey’d outbreath.
The room is still, now;
Open window admits
No sound –
For there is none.
She’s so good
To me,
For me …
But, in every way,
So very wrong too.
“Three,”
I’m secretly thinking,
“Is far more cruel.”