Coitus Interruptus

The closets are finally cleared
of your books,
the books of strands of your hair,
bookmarking pages in passion
and smells of
hurried Coitus Interruptus.

I sold most of yours
and those we read together,
I tore off your name from others
(books are rarer than true love)
and I am even believing
that I may read them again.

Now that I could write
of your memories
looking back
it was just Coitus Interruptus. 
 
In the Elizabethan age
they would have called it a dalliance
In the Sixties, a romance,
looking back, it was just no big deal,
neither all love
and certainly not lust.

copyright @ Anand V












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