Halcyon

the man

the tie's undone
before the door clicks shut.
habit, not haste,
choice, not fate,
my phone illuminates,
it is my wife,
she is my life,
she texts home? 
i type almost,
half-written honesty,
half-hearted remorse.
and maybe,
that's just a hundred times worse.

every secret, wrong affair,
starts as a translation of loneliness,
 then wrapped up in helpless desire,
 bedecked in selfish thrill
but when you chase warmth,
in windowless rooms,
and mistake a pause,
for secret, unbridled freedom,
you are already doomed.
my heart's a terrible accountant,
it always double-spends.
'oh, my lovely wife,
does not deserve this life,'
i say,
and still speed down the highway.

back at the motel,
untied tie, loosened collar,
half-lit cigar, everlasting ashtray,
crumpled receipts, secret bills,
glasses of wine, bottles of whisky,
rain racing down the window's fog.
the mirror never lies,
but it blurs enough to soften the truth.

it's just an escape, i tell myself
but renaming sin doesn't make it smaller.
we always say, this is the last time,
right before the lights go out.
but come morning,
the clock above the bed still
shows the same second
stopped. stubborn.

oh my god.
what have i effin' done?

i thought love could live in compartments,
turns out it leaks first, then bleeds.
i only borrowed sin;
i never meant to own it.
but guilt sleeps light
it always wakes before i do.
you can't leash the truth
and call it control.
even secrets leave fingerprints
on the moral crime scene.
my lies grew roots before i noticed.
it's easier to rehearse remorse
than to mean it.
burning bridges
isn't the best way to stay warm.

and here's the lesson,
desire's tax is always paid
in debts of regret.

oh, my beautiful wife,
you don't deserve this life.