He stands, hand on knob
Treading on the brink of bye
At the nexus of douce and cob
His heart held safe inside it’s tye.
She sleeps, quahog-like in quilts
Curled tightly into her fetal shell
Nightmares of woe, reps of guilt,
And pangs of sorrow chime like a bell.
His eyes dart back, for parting gift,
Her areole clad in light moire silk,
Confirmed ED, source of their rift.
Joe found her dishy, no shrewish ilk.
But they could not relate, living or dead,
So despite their love, he had steps to tread.
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