Soup at 1A.M.

I got home and he was there
with soup on the stove at 1AM
I told him about my evening
and the music and the dinner


and I left out her eyes
I left out that soft swell of comfort
that poured over me,
like a lazy wave calming the frantic beach
each and every time she touched me


He asked me if it was tense,
If it was OK,
If there was sexual tension
and I said, “Yes”


and I left out the curve of her hip
I left out that curious fire which like a coal
brightens and rekindles for that brief moment
when set upon by breath
each and every time she kissed my cheek.


And he looked at me with a discouraging
face and shook his head
tended to his soup, adding more pepper
and stirring the pot
steam languidly swirling around his salted hair
and asked me if it’s, “Going to get old quick?”


and I
for all it’s worth breathed deeply
of the sweetness in the room
closed my heavy eyes, pulled
the corners of my lips into a smile
and shook my head, “No.”