The one who loved too much
The one who did not love enough
The one who was slightly intrigued
And the one who inspired the seventh verse-
Barely knew the meandering mazes of love.
Straightened bedsheets, creme white curtains,
Fail to masquerade the musty smell of fornication-
It rose from the barren beds and merged
With the smog outside the third floor window
To produce the piercing sensation
of a lingering pain-
a thorn on a freshly plucked rose.
