Cold Morning

Bending to your breast
Kissing little white circles
My fingers had left.

Jen likes white and he likes red. They settle on rosé - first one bottle and then two. When they’re finished and in bed together, they talk and play games like people in love. But they aren’t in love.
Jen asks him to make a haiku (one of their games), and he does, but Jen says it’s no good.
“It’s not cold enough for your fingers to leave circles.”
“It is, and they did.
“I know my breasts and I’d know if it was cold enough for that,” she said.
“Well I’m the one who was looking at them and that’s how it was.”
“You’re drunk.”
“Maybe a little,” he said.
“So let’s not talk about it anymore.”
He nods and puts his head in her lap and she smokes with one hand and tousles his hair with the other.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “It was a nice poem. Really, it was.”
“Doesn’t matter. I don’t like haiku.”
“Yeah, well,” she says.
“Yeah, well,” he says.
“So let’s be sweet and not talk about it. Quiet is nicer, don’t you think?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s be silent then, okay?”
“Yes, let’s do that.”
He closes his eyes and listens to the storm outside and she takes his hand in her hands:
Palms turn up and show
Lines on a map I can’t read
Hieroglyphs to me.
“Not bad,” he says.
“Thought you don’t like haiku?”
“I like yours.”
“Yeah, well,” she says.
“Yeah, well,” he says.
They have coffee and watch the storm, and they laugh and say little things like people in love, but they aren’t in love.