I lost what I wrote last night (which was really good) but wrote this today instead

Civilian Wars

Placing resentments on the kitchen table. We forget – never forgive. In moment of anger and lust we resign to our garage door loneliness and take for granted the silence that comes before the dawn. In the background Spanish singers speak of stealing souls of lovers – we are spared that for the time being.

Later, in a moment after the tin foil and lace, we twine together like pieces of string and spices. This lack of momentum is all we care for as the sun breaks the contempt between us. Kisses replaced tongue tied lightening as we undressed like cross-eyed strangers, not sure what the other had in store. The obsequious gesture of your finger tracing my nipple had an uncertainty that could not go un-notice but yet made it hard.

The vigorous judgment lay between the sheets soiled in a magnitude of lust and betrayal. I always do something your not quite sure is right and your eyes list all my simple mistakes. I am young, I say, I will learn. The borderline between sanity and remaining calm in the placating morning light that never really touches the corners of my mind.

Later we resign to the shower that exhumes all doubt of reasonable debate. The mirror shows two lovers stripping the dirt and misunderstandings and washing it down the drain with the soap and water. Your skin becomes a mellow light of gold while mine might embarrass a porcelain plate. You ask why we never did this before and I think so innocently that it might not have come to mind. Your hands wash my hair and I touch your back so softly it might have been the breeze from the open window.

The dawn turns to midday and midday to afternoon and so on and so forth. We lay in silence as the day looses itself to nightfall. The warmth of your skin turned snow to ice. The moon smiled in a beautiful but yet annihilating way and in the distance we hear fireworks left over from a celebration of independence.

The rose colored glasses you bought me stand aside the bed waiting to be worn. Gathering your resentments from the kitchen table, I realize it is always you who leaves first.