While I was kissing you,

far away, a bomb came through the roof,

where a family eating soup

splashed blood against the walls

along with bowls and spoons and bones

and splintered chairs,

and I was holding you beneath me,

while men and women ran down streets

away from fire, flying bricks and glass

and you were moaning,

reaching for my hair

and couldn’t hear the screams rising

through the smoke and ash

while sirens shrieked,

and I was loving you,

our clothes thrown in wild abandon

while cries of madness came

from where a door once stood

and when we writhed in passion’s wake,

no one moved on the kitchen floor,

no one said goodbye.