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

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