white shirt

The white shirt you wore,
in the early evening,
so crisp and clean,
is on the chair with
the dull imprint of food
and red wine, your shoes
are below, the laces still
tied, change scattered,
on the floor, your keys,
I don't know. Your phone
is beeping some
where in the house,
maybe it's tomorrow night's
date, I can't keep track
of you, but you're alseep
after making love,
or rather, having sex
with me, someone you
you hardly know,
and the same goes for me.
It's the age we are
in. Staggering, the time
that has passed.
Marriages and kids,
the sudden moves, from
house to house, the tornado
that is divorce. So strange
to be dating strangers,
and hoping for love, or like,
or something that resembles
normalcy at this stage.
But you're asleep. You are
kind and sweet, and the stories
you have told me, are funny,
tragically true, it seems.
I know so little about you,
or you about me, but let's see.
Lets sleep and see what
the morning brings.