leftovers

the whispers
once pervasive clamors, dwindled into murmurs and muffled moans.
in bed, lingered the smell of leftover lust, soiled rain, and the indentations of bodies in motion.
now at rest.
the slowing down of hands, and limbs, and minds made her realize that things were not dead,
not in that moment,
not just yet.
and in his momentary gaze she thought she saw a connection.
felt a flicker.
only to penetrate deeper and find that all too familiar reflection.
a reflection that carried not the weight of two, but the emptiness of one.
and in that instant she realized that the weight was not one of depth.
not the depth of love.
not the kind of love that she could lend into.
the kind of depth that could steady her heart faster than any hand to break the fall from such heights.
he was in no position to make her fall into places of complete lust, or loss, or vulnerability,
because he was unwilling to give that of himself.
and in that overwhelming feeling of isolation she seized. ceased into her all familiar gaze.
empty. unfulfilled.
turned her heart into a slight slant
grinned to rebound the ache of another self-fulfilling affliction.
kissed him and went about her day.