Forget sex. Sex sells itself. Sell this instead:
the quiet moment afterwards when time
begins to flow again, the opening of eyes,
the paniced realization that the world
is still the same: the moonlight, cold
and silver though the opened window,
the television's buzz, the emptiness
of wine glasses on the nightstand,
just a ring of mauve at the bottom,
a smudge of lipstick on the rim.
Find beauty in the body as the goosebumps
fade, in the slow curl back into itself
as it redraws the boundaries of yours
and mine, the drifting down from Olympus,
the slow walk out of Eden, head hung low,
the picking up of pieces from the ground
like windblown catkins after a storm.
The cicadas cease their singing. Stop
and listen to the sound of breath
between the numbness of your lips.