A lazy Sunday afternoon

Michelle McGrane

We are four months old,
lying sprawled across rumpled bedclothes,
legs entwined, passion spent,
when you tell me you have
a girlfriend, that
she lives in another city.
You light a cigarette,
blow perfect bluish-grey smoke rings,
kiss the curves of my
neck, shoulders, breasts, slowly
as if we have all the time
in the world.

I try to look you dead in the eye
but you refuse to meet my gaze.
You say she depends on you
and you don't want to hurt her,
she is not strong like I am.
You stroke my hair, face, trace lips
with gentle fingertips, skin to skin
we lie wrapped in silence
in the heat of a lazy Sunday afternoon.

Your voice floats over me from far away.
I hear the birds in the trees and
the neighbour's dog bark as
you murmur that you love me, but
the guilt is killing you,
so you are moving in with her.
The liquid light of a summer afternoon
spreads itself like honey across the bed,
our bodies smell of fresh sweat.
Your smoky breath is warm
against my cheek when you tell me
you cannot see me ever again.

LitNet: 20 December 2005

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