On the living room floor,

he curls around my body —

heavy leg thrown over mine.

Sated from our tryst,

I listen to soft snores

and wonder how I got here.

 

My eyes dance across the walls –

woven wood trying to pose as modern art,

an abstract yellow painting

too serious and bland for the stone fireplace,

and other Pier I chachkies

sprinkled here and there

to make a catalog come to life.

 

Doesn’t she know

the façade she’s crafted

doesn’t change what’s happening

inside her perfect house?

For the only possession he desires

is pinned under his thigh.

 

(And I the biggest fool,

for thinking that I own any part of him.)