in the slaughterhouse all faces look the same we lay together, the putrid flavour of you liquid a remnant on my language. our passion spent, its stench hangs in the room, sweetened slightly by the fresh March breeze that seeps in through the open window, brushes back the burgundy curtains, softly, gently, like the hands of the lover i ws moments before. smoking cigarettes in the vaccuum, words that got us here now stick in the throat and must be spit out, expurgated--sputtering, words echo in the hollow ,betray our legends. we pull at the damp sheets, cover portions of our pink, pimpled flesh--so suddenly stark naked, weathering the vast, terrifying minutes between desire and sleep.