Sympathy, she feels for him as globs of goo run down his leg.  No—empathy.  This isn’t the last time we’ll be together, she assures him as shivers of Aphrodite’s spit shake the column where he rocked.  She’s not as cruel as she intends, but she has an agenda and way about her that will not move.  The men she moved with moved with her, in any direction she flowed; at times the flow was bidirectional, monthly changing till the next.  Each gave as much as she took, but took less than she was willing to give.  They called her names and let her ride them, but sticks and stones are better tools.  Only one would win momentum, but even he would pay a price.  
           
He asks how he’ll go as she covers her assets.  Don’t be childish, she tells him as he sinks back to bed level.  She begins to move but one last spring forth of him holds her front.  Please, he pleads, please me.  She breaks his grip and gropes the saddle of his rocking:  What we have is too grand to ruin with expectation.  Tomorrow, perhaps, you’ll have it, or perhaps a tomorrow after.  What’s the rush?  Why this ancient rancor?  There’s much joy in the sea of the city—go out and find some fish.
           
She leaves him in hope and coffee; he takes it as she leaves it.  He only wishes vertical were as comforting as she is.  Decades pass; he moves on—decades dust and settle.  In the grass of home, bodies swaying, gentle in the cradle.  And she on clouds between them swings from earthquake to the pasture; only once does she regret the path that she has chosen.  And in that once she almost chose him, but couldn’t touch the pavement.

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