Do you remember the last time we made love?
The ropey room we chose, those tatty quarters,
That blessed abode, one above all other rooms,
A tactful witness to the last scraps of our passion.
Our end came as if it had been squatting all along
Behind the door, all set to enter at the slightest sign.
Our last lovemaking was mature and considered,
Effortlessly measured for the certain conclusion.
So skilled at each other we did not seek to explore.
I often wonder if there was a chance to go back,
Would we commit the same mistakes once more?
Lying was pointless. There were no truths left to share.