The porch sang a song that I recall from memory,
One about hearts being made of gravy,
And lust that picked up – quite steadily
Your room where I left my stains – still smelt of wetness and rain
The tears – which you probably dispersed
The ones that fell on the ground and stayed there –
Forever to be and never to cease
We spoke softly of literature and music
Your words so passionate –
Mine so angry.
Bukowski we chose to speak of with tea
And Ryan Adams played when we sat down to eat
I don’t recall what we spoke of next
But Kundera filled our minds
Like the coffee you served – and we never drank
What went on in your bedroom, while we did not speak –
Tamed the situation we came to bring beneath
 But after that shutter of moans and screams
Your eyes fell deep into a mist 
And I, so solemnly caressed your feet –
Your breasts, while you – still did not speak
Then the cigarette that found itself between your fingers,
Made me cough.
I left without saying goodbye,
 Your room – the one with the memories I often see,
I often visit – but you’re not there
Just our bodies – entwined
While our minds drift - somewhere afar.