A Room That Isn't (Downstairs).
Five of seven nights since her haughty, rehearsed sneer:
regrettable vignettes intrude well-earned respite;
spoofing banalities that need no parody
even as a new woman feigns sleep in my bed.
Three floors down in an astral amalgamate space:
reconciliation and reigning in. Once again,
hastily forsaking what’s had for what has gone.
Through a slitted eyelid, I see she finds her clothes,
and seeks an assuring and dignified good bye
with pursed lips, I less than respectfully decline.
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