Love's Labour Lost

Forever lasted on average five years
at least according to the latest statistics
at least when it came to love

And in that time
her eyes had become deaf
to the deliberate eloquence
of his soft roses
bored with his practised
spontaneity

Was it good for you?
he would ask and she'd smile
the usual lie, as she struggled
back into her clothes
and murmur a goodbye

Pointless to sleep over
to face the breakfast inquisition
his insistent "was it good for you?"
as he doled out eggs and bacon
to feel the flicker of his anxious
polygraph eyes across her face

Taking the fifth as she bolted her food
an excuse not to respond
unresponsiveness becoming a habit

no, just a quick peck and a sprint
to her car, to sleep in her own bed
comfortable, undemanding

and as she drove,
she thought of how arduous
their ardor had become

and though they had done it all,
how to say to him it wasn't
enough

Love when it has lost its lustre
isn't like those warmed up leftovers
which often taste better reheated
especially if hot and spicy to begin with

It is more like actors in a play
mouthing someone else's words
playing a role, struggling to give
the illusion of emotion
- until the curtain falls anyway