AFTERMATH
I want to talk about the aftermath of love, not the honeymoon or the hitherto; but the upshot and the convalescence, the slow, hard hauling --the heavy tow. I want to tell you about those evenings, that crept inside like a vagrant cat; and cast around its drawn out shadow, untoward--- insufferably black. I want to write about the mornings, the sterility of the stark, cold lights; struck against a pair of bare shoulders, the lurid whisper of a misspent night. I want to convey the afternoon setting, the water torture of the sink; drip by drip, the clock and its ticking, and too much time left now to think.