By Zak Aseltine
A squeeze, a kiss, he pecks her cheek.
“Honey, I’m working late this week,
like last week and that before”.
Lies. He flirts whilst holding doors.
His will, monogamy deplores.
Carpet burns from hotel floors.
Scratches from His high-class whores.
She notices the smell. Dior.
The doting wife, She holds her tongue.
Thoughts of His infidelity
repressed, her cries of pain, unsung.
He finds himself betwixt strange limbs.
The stinging scent of sin abhors
His heart, but primal urges win
internal dichotomic wars.
In a sleeping strangers lustful clutch
He thinks of Her, the time they spent
movies, windy walks and such.
Comfort in familiar scent.
With silent steps, His velvet key,
His guilty yet ethereal gait
returns once more to his own sheets,
returns back to His tortured mate.
Her nape He smells, and hair He touches,
remembering now the stranger’s clutches.
He thinks that he should end it for her sake.
As She silently weeps they lie awake.