Moreen’s motives taste
like forgiveness.
Her stylist separated
her long, stringy, dark hair
with foil for blonde highlights.
Moreen arrived after,
running her fingers through
the length of the final product.
She bit her bottom lip, winked,
spun around, and asked my thoughts.
The crystal in her emerald eyes
caught what she said
but not what I meant.
My jaw dropped.
I chimed in my two cents,
hungry to wrap her hair
around her neck for a taste.
I spilled more compliments
than I’d wanted her to know.
I loved but feared the sting
of rejection.
The older I get, the more I find
the beauty in Moreen.
She laughs when nothing’s funny,
making me crack up, and then she’d laugh
again.
Moreen mounted me in bed.
She cupped my cheeks;
we exchanged tongues.
We made suggestive moans.
The fireplace warmed us up enough
to cackle as we shed our clothes.
Our love drowned out the neighbor’s movie.
Mr. Baker began pounding on the wall.
I stopped.
And she stopped, too.
She placed a finger on her lips.
We’re moving into our new house
in the morning, so screw their sleeping.
I’d gone through long nights
of their rock music pumping through the stereo.
We did it until we finished.
Moreen’s eyes rolled back in her head.
I prayed she wasn’t dead!
Moreen whispered after screaming, “OH MY GOD”
She slipped out of the door before sunrise.
I packed the rest of my stuff.
I turned around to survey the empty home.
I cleaned the hardwood floors
and vacuumed strands of Moreen’s hair.
And the memories don’t live here anymore.