It’s not a way out she wants
but a snug cul-de-sac
in which to consummate
her unhappiness,
and my loneliness.

Achieving what?
Temporary release
from rubbing together?
An illicit distraction for her,
before parting too soon,
perhaps again and again,
as and when?

Me left alone
with a trace
still warm,
still fragrant,
in this place that is not
her marriage bed.