“We’ve got to stop this,” he tells her,

hands still caught up,

teasing through the knots

left over from that sort of sex.

“This is wrong,” he tells her,

words slurred by pressure,

by lips pressed too firmly

against the creases of a hip.

“This is us,” she tells him,

sliding arms into sleeves

and feet along curved soles

ready to slip out.

“We need this.”

Next month is NaPoWriMo so I’m trying to get back to writing poetry a little more often. Call it a warm up for April.