Our cluttered home,
piqued by evening light
and vacant shoes (still warm),
summons our imagined selves
to the fringes of our conscience
and casts visions of immaculate
hotel rooms where we once made love.
Tonight, her laps around the coffee table
are enough to quell our suspicion
of our own laziness and we remain
as we are -
we call this love,
as we were taught to call it,
and I am inclined to the accuracy
of our instruction
even as we fall regretfully asleep.
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