the warmth of our sighs
occupied the room,
it covered naked and
extended wrecks.
what’s left of our bodies
is reminiscent of the smell
of falling leaves and
cut grass —
the scent of Autumn.
we breathe deeply as
you scratch my back
like I’m still
only a vision
from yesterday’s diary
but if I turn
you will recognise
my unshaven face.
do you want me once more?
do we stay here?
will there anything be left of us?
you might look for your bra
or put on my T-shirt.
you may even laugh while you make
our afternoon coffee.
these games are unpredictable.
it is a drama in three acts
and a comedy about us.
the net was supposed to be
knitted for others
and look—
now we’re trapped in it.
and so for hours,
we will play —
I’ll kiss your breasts,
you’ll scratch my back.

©Tom Del Braco

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