This fictional (but based on real emotions) poem is all about the 8th stanza, I think the image r000lzz.
One-night stands can be fun, but there are times when you wake up and feel like the two of you are...
by Patri Friedman
The night is old, the air is cold, the morning
not yet found,
as I reach out for comfort, awakened by some small sound.
I touch your form with skin so warm, yet it
feels strangely wrong,
Your neck as soft as I expect, but your hair's a little long.
Dark presses in, my armor thin, I need your
strength tonight,
Our room looks unfamiliar, lit only by dim moonlight.
Your hair has a smell that casts a spell and
makes all troubles cease,
If only I can find the scent 'twill bring my needed peace.
My unease grows, for my heart knows our bed
is not this wide,
I sweat, I start, can it be true? Am I not at your side?
Images flood, with a mighty thud, my sore heart
skips a beat,
I remember anger, pride, and fear, falling to my feet,
in shock, in pain, drenched by the rain, I
firmly had resolved
To go out and forget you and the bond we'd just dissolved.
Sick with drink, I managed to think, fooled
by mutual sighs,
That the source of the river Lethe lay nestled 'tween foreign
thighs.
Pulses beat fast while passion lasts, burning
away the shame,
But its glow fades in an hour, yours lasted till morning came.
Now there's naught to do but think of you,
and turn and toss and fret
until dawn breaks and frees me from this cage of stranger's sweat.
Weak our love, a fragile dove, if this its
final fate
Nurtured in our tender care, then wrecked by a bottle of hate.
Will it mend, is this a bend, or an irrevocable
break?
Only morning can tell what sort of hell results from my mistake.
Last Modified: The Beginning of a New Millenium