We were talking at cross purposes. We were enjoying domestic reverie together. How did it blossom into completion?
Head on your lap
One leg crossed over the other
And lying on the sofa,
I was picking at an old scab
A wound that left an ugly mark
To remind me of all that I desperately try to forget
A strangely satisfying activity, that.
And I was telling you
Of things that I should have done, and said
Vindication! Revenge! Justice! Satisfaction!
But I was really just talking to myself.
Until you broke into my reverie
And you said,
“But that wouldn’t be classy.
And you’re always classy.”
And that was all.