a temptress running
her fingers down my arm
at a dinner party
Sometimes I wake up
at three in the morning,
wounded: a temptress running
her fingers down my arm
at a dinner party, you in bed
with my best friend from childhood.
Every now and then, you hit
a new low. This time,
an exotic woman was lost
and called our number by mistake.
You guided her through
unfamiliar territory out of kindness,
your voice: a terrible calm.