Nothing Left
There is always
the aftermath,
the after kissing
time. Time to sit
and remember
the lips touching.
She recalls that well.
His lips on hers.
Skin on skin. Time
to reflect on actions
made. Things done
and not done. Or
done at the wrong
time for the wrong
reasons. She knows
she will go to him
and do similar things
again. The love making
holds no surprises.
The holds, the way
his fingers move over
her, the positions she
engages in, those cigarettes
after, those French ones
he insists on smoking.
The after feel, the stale
breath, the feeling
there is nothing left.
poem by Terry Collett
Added by Poetry Lover
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