The End Of The Road

She shouldn’t have called his number,
But she did.

When he saw it was her ringing,
He shouldn’t have answered it…
But he did.

They couldn’t seem to stop,
Both hooked on the drug…
The drug of passion.

For them, it gave a high of love…
And guilt.

Both knew that they needed to

But neither knew how to stop…
Or wanted to know how.

And so they found themselves,
In another nondescript hotel room,
Fully describing their feelings
For each other,
In that world.

Both knew it was wrong,
And that it would not end well,
But that didn’t stop them from
Ripping the clothes off
One another.

They did so with an urgency,
Both, consciously
To expose the flesh of each…
To drown in the sight,
And scent,
And taste of each.

But they did so unconsciously,
As well,
To tear into their heart flesh.
That when all this came
Crashing down around them,
They would perish,
All the more quickly,
From these pre-existing wounds.

And when their love-making ended,
They looked at one another


That… again…it should not have happened.

But they continued to take this journey,
And over,

Neither seatbelts fastened,
Nor emotions…

Careening between the rush of
Their hearts beating,
And bleeding,
They kept their accelerator
Full throttle,
To the floor…

The floor of their lives.

This journey,
Of love and passion,
Was coming to its close.

But neither he,
Nor she…

Could stop…

Until it came to the end…

The end of the road.


© 2017 W. C. Stacia, Jr.


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