In love:
Still warm,
stacked neatly
at the edge of our bed.
My shirt sleeves,
tucked under, linger
against your winter hat.
Our bedside lamps glow.
Out of love:
You quickly untangle
your twisted pant legs
from my sweaters
(not wanting to remember
how I look in the pink one),
then abandon it all
in a heap in the hall
outside our bedroom,
closing the door
behind you.
The Blue Hour 
The Blue Hour is glad to share this poem by Joan Prusky Glass, her use of imagery is spotless.