He hangs his head low
His nails, gone
She flips her hair back
And taps the pen
Blue ink
Like the manifested ink
Coaxed by her urine
A few weeks before
They’ve debated,
It’s apparent
By the way his fingers interlock
His teeth are shorter than that night
When he bared them together
In ecstasy
Unable to pull away
She sees the milestones of her future
Like imposed palm trees
Along a beachside boulevard
She is a career woman
The clean silver sedan
Boasts the right to park in collegiate lots
She will not divert
She will not be like her mother
Or her mother before her
His eyes will not fall on the rigid executive
His princess turned murderous queen
He is sweating bullets
But not like the ones
That moistened her skin
When he rubbed his brow on her chest
And sank his face into her
Ready breast
No, these beads of sweat
Tell a story
One is a preconceived notion
One is the voice of his father
One is the voice of her mother
One is the silence of the car ride here
One is the shiny, sterling silver machine
That will suck away his heart.