Hospitable Hurricanes

We pulled up close to the curb with a long gown earnestly engulfing my thighs. A stare in the opposite direction. Secure in our humanity. Content with the creak of the vacant swing.

We suffered up an excuse. In the most sober hours of night. Not old enough yet to hate what we'd become. Or realize its permanence. We arranged the dirt on the grave. Into a mosaic of thoughts. Not the least of which was why.

We hung from the ceiling. Like bats do. Carefully tucked inside our claws. Telling love in lies so plain. That we were relieved. When it was over.

Fertile muscles tensing and cajoling seldom hearts into submission.