The Morning After

The bare back is nothing but a
     platform for unyeilding words
     to scrape mental deteriorations into.
It resembles that one moment
     when the light cast it’s wake,
     harbouring hands that were
     meant to be yours.
It is the glass that crawls along
     your spouses’ spine,
     invigorating and weary where the
     nape folds in.
It is the steps lost within wine
     drenched lips,
     the only exit when a
     lamb tears with teeth.
How can it be expected that
     ribs crawl over time
     and torso’s move frequently?
And so, it is exactly what you think it is.

That one moment when you should have said no.