she assumed
it would never end,
the carpet ride.
forever would they saunter
into wonderland,
juicy kisses always
on her hungry lips.
but magic is wizard’s work.
no random apples
fall from mundane trees.
the daily warlords
steal fire from the gods,
invoke new dieties,
shove the carpet
to the ground.
now, passion is
an obstacle at sunset.
kisses are vagabonds.
long shadows
play tricks,
his manly silence
now ennui.
the stubble looks unkempt.