Spillage

Standard

She didn’t know where to set her glass,
the room so uniformly white and pristine,
her red, Chuck Taylor sneakers seemed an affront.

Furniture designed for clean lines
versus a back’s comfort.
Nowhere to lean in, curl.

Her home, decorated by a trail of dog hair,
mashed Cheerios and collage of sticky fingerprints,
all soft angles, rich colors, and deep cushions.

As he doggedly nudged a coaster in her direction
while she splashed Malbec on the pale rug,
she thought, “I’m done with match. com.”

But then remembering her long empty bed,
her painful yearning for a hand resting
on the small of her bare back,

she slid her tennis shoe over the spreading stain,
looked up,
and tried to smile.

©Julie Ayers
September 2011

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About Julie Ayers

Seasoned apocaloptimist, keen admirer of well-placed words, fierce mama bear of extra special children, black belt hugger, and advocate for a fashion rebellion which elevates the most human of hearts to socially acceptable outerwear.

2 responses »

  1. loneliness, no so good ,but unfortunately we humanity, are always alone.

    so there is no compliant.

    man come alone/lives alone/and dies alone;this is the fate of humankind.

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