Sex and then the walk home.
Not the calm and then the storm.
Chestnust, raindrops, fallen leaves
Of raw emotion, logic’s the thief
Of detailed analysis, feeling’s the muddler
The rough sex a failure, at least a good cuddler
The moon’s not quite full, but more than halfway there
It shines a light on my bed: empty with no one to share
Thus coming home always feels like leaving someone behind
I just sometimes wish it weren’t someone, but rather my mind