Traces

You towel dry,
all traces of guesswork gone;
fibres and filaments
washed down the drain.
Aromas of Seventh Avenue
and blonde highlights,
a trickle on the tiles,
a vapour on the glass
of the medicine chest.

All thought of indiscretion lost,
but one finite card,
falling from your wallet,
like a beacon.
I look,
I see,
and wipe it quickly away
with my broom,
as silently as I wipe
the steam on the glass.
A moment's denial,
before we embrace.