Never is

How could he not love her:

Necklace and neck and fancy ring
and breasts and hair and hips
and heavenly eyes with their deep shine
of perfect ass.

One eye golden,
one brown,

the brows above the eye
on the left side & the right
made from a sharp bold pencil stroke.

Her dark lips, a perfect mystery to be solved.

Her strength lifts him from his chair,
as his cigarette ash falls to the painted floor.

The short walk lasts a lifetime.

"But it's finished," he said,
after they'd left the bed

and there won't be another
who walks the dog in the rain,
or holds his head in a cloud

quite like her.

There never is.