Their affair has been tempestuous,
and then some. Like us
 
they like to fuck,
to rut and hump, tongue and suck,
 
but then grow sullen,
wondering not if but when
 
the end will come. He says to her,
You’re not all pretty flowers
 
and hippie skirts, bitch!
And she: If you want to switch
 
genres go buy a thesaurus,
don’t just mope around all morose
 
and quasi-narrative. And so it goes.
They criticize each other’s clothes,
 
her eye for art, his ear for music,
then they hit the sack,
 
and pledge to give it one more chance.
Theirs is a heterotextual romance.