She had her bags packed by the door.
Keys on the table.
Don’t leave, I said.
Give me one reason.
I am able
to walk right now and mean it.
I grabbed her by the jaw,
kissed her so hard she dropped her purse on the floor—raw,
and open,
the kiss more blade than affection.
She kissed back with equal fury,
equal misdirection.
From the exit she had planned,
her coat fell off her shoulders.
My shirt came off.
The argument was over.
The smoldering coals and boulders
of resentment turned to fuel
and she undid my jeans.
I pulled her dress up over her head
and the in-betweens
of fighting and fucking disappeared.
She jumped and wrapped
her legs around me
and I carried her back,
all fury tapped.
The goodbye fuck,
she was leaving
and I changed the subject—
from the door to the bed,
we wrecked
every promise she had made to herself
about walking out tonight.
The goodbye fuck,
I ate her pussy till she lost the fight
in her legs to leave.
She came on my mouth
and forgot the taxi.
The goodbye fuck,
filthy and flaxy.
I slid inside her
still angry,
still not sorry for a thing.
She pulled me deeper with her heels
and started to sing
the profanities of a woman
being fucked too good to leave.
I pumped her
till neither of us could grieve
the fight or the distance
or whatever brought us to this cliff.
She came again
and bit my ear
and said what if
we just keep doing this
instead of all that other shit.
The goodbye fuck
that turned into
I ain’t leaving.
Not one bit.