FIFTY-PERCENT

She said that he didn’t love her anymore,
lost to him now,
gaunt glimmering wisp of refracted affection,
spread too thinly to matter,
stale remnants of a waning life
captured

only in snapshots
stolen carefree smiles
barely remembered
and windswept under

forgotten journeys
once planned to resurrect cold ashes
from the hollow of his absent heart.

She said that he had been unfaithful,
long before the faint slither
of desperate fingers,
grappler
each fickle allure
sculpting

his supple,
weaning ego
cooed placates
shallow promises,
sweet unadulterated escapes -
to what?

More of the same,
masquerading as the next best thing,
with dull sparkles of cheap cut-glass,
an imitation more demanding,
than she might ever have been.

And he knew, within the coiled recess,
in chronic replay,
dallying faint reminders
of erotic shameful launches.

Behind those shoplifted hips,
tattooed scarlet heart.

He knew, at last
that she needed no more,
wanted - no less,
the “for sale” sign revoked

heavy slats clasped onto her blinded soul
turned under,
his labyrinth of confused insincerity,
mounting

abysmal failure
destined to haunt every move,
each time he caught her wavering glimpse,
reflecting back at him
from the rear view mirror.