Opus

After

Your fingers trace the razor cuts on my arms.
You don't ask me about it, and I am glad.
Your beard scrapes my shoulder and I
wither in all the shades of indigo
You tell me about something mundane,
like how you almost stepped on the dead rat
on the side of the road the other day,
and we crumble like the colours from the walls.
I count the freckles on your back
as the smoke from your cigarette rolls away
out of the window far away to the sea.
Slowly, taking it's time,
as our odours mingle in the heat in a mess
of familiarity and sweat.
Our skins dissolve into each other
and you lie on me like a dead fish.