Aftermath

After we slow kiss until both lips
start chapping from the normalcy,
After we tell our mothers and fathers
and brothers and sisters and friends
and ex-lovers
about the intimacy between you and me,
After I have wrought rotten poems about
the tiny things that make you you,
Now what do we do?

After we have spent many days assembling
our life like IKEA furniture, and pretending
that the world ends where your curtains begin,
After we have corked every debate, and stated
every thing to have been said, and unsated
have supplanted conversations with skin,
After we have walked a lot
because there's no reason to not
and besides
it gives us something to do,
Now what do we do?

After I realize that we had simply pickled
leftover passion
in saline promises seasoned in the season's fashion
and the asinine sweetness of summer's evanescence (an absence
of sense, a lapse, adolescence - perhaps
could explain
why we bit off more than we could chew?)
After you disappear and stain my atmosphere
a permanent shade of You,
Now what do I do?