It was late
we had been drinking wine
and you asked me to stay.
The bed was unmade
and there was a faint smell of aftershave
and I wondered how many men slept in your bed
before you got around to change the sheets.
If wine isn’t an aphrodisiac it surely is an anaesthesia of the mind
and with the light off
the ghosts of men past disappeared.
When you gently snored,
the rhapsody of humanity lost,
I got up and sat in your living room
reading a book about love.