MASOCHIST

You pour me another glass. The
champagne bubbles dance like fireflies
in the circle of candlelight that surrounds us.

The wind is howling outside, driving rain into the windows
as if anxious to be admitted into our private space.
This place, this moment, our intimacy, is all I can trust.

My mind is riding the bubbles: probing, analysing
who you really are. Trying to relax, I hold on to you,
sensing all your fantasies of the past twenty years.

A fusion of bodies - not just our two, but all
the ghosts between us: a cacophony of masochistic tauntings.
Afterwards, I drain my glass. You are still sleeping

when I leave by the back door
feeling betrayed.