Mistake

MISTAKE

The paint’s chipped where

you kicked the door shut

that night - not in anger then,

but the urgency of the moment:

the surge that began with the

brief brush of hand against hand,

the shift of sense,

the wrenching of certainties -

desire made flesh.

A dab would cover it -

a spot of white, erasing

as you would a misspelt

word, or a comma

misplaced.

But I leave it. I’d still

know it was there.

Better to do the job properly.

Or not at all.