Quite unlike Lullaby
those authors of bliss aid
sordid fantasies,
Reminders of could-bes
and not-quites

recreate Cheap Love.
We were not meant to be lovers
nor to recreate
Ancient Lore

We were but players.
I live to forget my indiscretions
in  your moment of lying comfort.

Hold on.
And eyes squeezed shut,
breathing. Whisper a half truth.

I forget in the personal,
And the brutally close. Forget
when your profanity became sacred

Rude shocks of morning breath as
you find
a lash clinging
And then turn to
Football scores.
I pluck it gingerly and wish
for innocence back,
what better gift?

Your preoccupations
my lack of indignation.
Both astound me,
For I give it all, and I do not know
What right this is
nor what i should ask for.

Recede into insignificance.
No hard feelings.

You forget, you forget.