You like the way she undresses,
the way the fabric doesn’t leave her flesh
until it’s hit the ground, as if it’s
reaching out to her to hold on a little longer
and you think you would, too,
if you were that little sundress or those panties.
In the soft light she smiles
and you lose track of the times you’ve argued
or the way she can bruise your heart
and you forget about the searing cut of her temper
when you touch the warmth under her skin.
And you think that this must be making love.
She tastes like oranges and clove cigarettes
and your heart is already bruised from the last time
she left you before dawn with your underwear
still on the floor, without a note or the faint whisper
of a hesitant goodbye.