You push
into me with the passion
of a Monday morning,
each thrust as mundane
and consistent as the drone
of a fluorescent light

in a quiet cubicle
along some suburban highway.
I focus on my poster
of a dozen colorful hot air balloons
gliding over Paris
as you come
silently, get up
without a word, shuffle
into the bathroom to wash
the impurity away.
I lie in bed,
your yellow sex slowly seeping
from between my legs while
you shuffle back, close the door
loudly, and ask me to scoot over
in my own bed.  You whisper
I love you, baby
and I close my eyes
and imagine the orgasmic bliss
of smashing your pretty, perfect face
against the wall.
And just like that,
you fall asleep.