Botero's Lovers

Botero 'Lovers' 1969

He dreams now, sleeping under a dusty pink bedspread,

in a bed, safe and warm.

Hours earlier he lost himself completely, 
succumbed to her loving embrace. 
Desires, strong and demanding, for her.

He recalls fingers brushing against his cheek, over his lips,
knowing, every line on his face.

Eventually they had fallen into a contented slumber,

side by side, encased in each other's arms. 
He nestled into her hair, to inhale her sweet aroma.
Tender, soft loins pressed against his.
Desires, insistent and all consuming, for him.
His hands rested lightly upon skin, luscious as velvet,
knowing, every curve of her body.

She rises early, sits on the edge of the bed,
places her slip over her head.
The feel of his touch lingers, fingertips rough yet gentle.
She longs to return to sheets, once so inviting, 
now crumbled and dishevelled.
Will he love me tomorrow, she wonders?
knowing, it will never be her bed.

In his dreams she still lies beside him,
the lingering scent of her perfume deceptive.
But the pillow is cold, just an impression left behind,
where her head once was. His arms now empty. 
Later, he finds a strand of hair, long and brown.
Will she love me tomorrow, he wonders?
knowing, she will never be his.

© the dishonest woman