Clarissa

-Her eyes, sullen, as they fall on him,
his expression vacant, his lips still,
not quivering, like hers,
when he told her he spent the night
with Clarissa; it was at that moment
her lip began to quiver, as her mind
raced back to that night, to her
sitting in the dark, in their apartment,
alone,
and she suffered with those words,
night after night, living the solitude
of two nights, the present and that night,
alone in the darkness, in a bed
made for two, and where was he
as her heart erupted, dampening the pillows
in a flood of tears?
Where was he, that he poured himself,
perhaps like an open bottle on its side,
empty, and returned to her vacant, without
so much as the expression of abandonment?
Was it the nights spent in Clarissa’s arms,
their energy shattered in their warmth
as the length of their bodies became one
and the night lay vigil over pleasure?
It was after gathering his things,
watching her hold back tears
as he packed a duffle bag full, gripping
the small tarnished lamp in his hand,
the only thing that was his,
that with the same stoic look, he entered
the bar a half block from Clarissa’s apartment,
sat in a corner where he was recognized and
the bartender offered to fill him up once again
with the first round on the house, a fair trade
for the soul he had left there.