satisfaction

It was late when she got home

and he was sitting in the dark.

The smell of whiskey was so strong

it cut through the cloud of smoke like the knife in his hand.

"What are you doing?" she asked,

"we don't smoke inside."

But he wasn't listening anymore.

He used to listen when

she told him her favorite song,

He used to listen when

she told him how he'd

never amount to anything just sitting there

listening all the time

so he plunged the knife

into his chest.

She stared in abject horror while he carved

a hole in his breast.

"WHY!" she cried,

but it was too late,

and in the brief moment

when he handed her

his beating organ

he gazed upon her face,

but did not find what he was looking for.