He said that if he had more lifetimes, he’d give you
at least two. But you really just wanted the one
you made for yourselves between midnight and sunrise
every other Thursday night at the Holiday Inn.
You knew it was easy to be the other woman.
When he pulled you toward him,
neither of you had to work to soften. There was no trash to take out,
no dishes, no children, nothing stacked
between you. Friends said you deserved better,
but deserve had nothing to do with it.
The night he said, Baby, we were born to bruise,
his hand turned up the stars, and that stupid city
finally receded until nothing was left but the two of you,
famous in each other’s arms, your bodies working like cogs,
the thick motel curtains shut tight
against the coming morning.
You didn’t even mind the dark that came after,
when he slipped away to drive his kids to school
and you were left to your dreaming,
their small faces, echoes,
slowly coming into focus.