Fancy hotel room
champagne on ice
red dress next to the bed
black suit on the chair
boxers on the floor
condom wrap broken.
Burning passion?
No.
Red lace panties
on the purse, ripped apart;
muffled screams
echoing the hotel room.
Rape?
No.
Two bodies
loosely covered by sheets
engulfed in blood
slowly dripping
down the white linen;
a man towering them
bloody knife in hand
tears in eyes.
Crime of passion?
Yes.
Sometimes the stars are just stars,
the significance is in
who you watch them with
and the feel of their skin,
which imprints itself on yours.
Life closes windows
but opens doors
and the sparkle in another’s eyes
and wet lips in the moonlight,
if this sounds like you then it is.
I still remember
all of our first kisses
and I won’t wish on anything tonight
because the stars are just stars.
