She thinks briefly
of killing him
as he orgasms again in her mind.
Behind her
she hears again his sob of pleasure
wanting that sound
to be not a memory
but something inside of her still.
She wants to kill him
beyond that moment.
Kill him for walking away,
his balls tender now
but his heart already
drifting beyond her.

One cigarette after another.
She draws the smoke in-
down into her lungs
then further
into her belly and womb
feeling the slow burn
turn into ghost images-
stillborn
but still curling within her
like a dead child.
She opens draws and cupboards
tossing out clothes
her clothes—anything that
has the taste of a life
before it fell apart
into smoke and smell.

A tear-stained mirror
its face sinking deeper into the past
as she looks within it.
She wants to write letters
raw accusatory letters
to his pride---his bullshit soul
but she cannot remember
why she loved him.
She dreams of following him
to his apartment.
Demanding her life back,
of holding his cock upon her stomach
as he came-
killing him tenderly now
with an inconsolable
and momentary love.






(With a nod to Pedro Almodovar)









(C) Eric Ashford July 08