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


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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