The woman who lies in my bed
is long past her twenties.
Eyes ringed
by years
by love affairs
from hand to mouth
worn down
by the kisses
that were too often, yet
too poorly given.
Her face bleak
despite the make-up,
paler than
a moon spot.
The woman who lies in my bed
is long past her twenties.
Her breasts so heavy
from too much love
cannot be deemed
appealing.
Her tired body
too much fondled,
too often, yet
too poorly loved.
Her back bent
seems to bear
memories
she had to escape.
The woman who lies in my bed
is long past her twenties.
Don't you laugh,
don't you touch her.
Spare your tears
and jeerings.
As the night
reunites us
her body, her hands
offer themselves to mine.
And it is her
tears and scars
covered heart
that soothes me.