She
returns from her palace,
After
her daily chores
She
unties her hair, washes her face
With
water running down her cheeks which
Complaints
of not being pampered.
The
night gets more dark, with thick blanket covering our body.
We
make love…she doesn’t smell of designer perfumes
But
of garlic and onion….
Her
lips don’t taste of strawberries
But
of salt, salt of her toil.
As
we both lay, as snakes in a glass jar
Her
tears roll down my shoulder,
I
never ask her the reason,
As
I slip into the lap of sleep
My
wife, my guilt, stares at me,
unanimated,
still, cold…
For
some reason, that I never ask.
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