hollywood romance

clothes lie forgotten
on the floor, next to the
half empty
take-out boxes and chopsticks,
a jumbled mess of denim, cotton, and discarded inhibitions.
wan dawn light,
barely leaking in
through drawn curtains
blends with the tired, gray wash
of the television, the room
in lifeless relief.
an old romance movie (your favorite)
replays on fast forward, mute.
(he kisses her --lips curl into a smile,
their eyes communicating
what wasn't shown on film-- the
sparks: ignited, smoldering, alive.)
my fingers wander across the
pillow and wrinkled sheets, still
cupped around the warm
memory of your body.
my own skin is a meager blanket,
cold and pale as old ashes,
the fire that died.
after the happy ending,
the credits roll, and i wonder
what you and i did different.