We tend to our lust
hurried by the possibility
that it may age and wither
faster than us.

How will our love perish?
How do good intentions die;
and who knows where they lead?

My verse is flat and dry.

I do not peer beneath our convincing prose
for fear that the center of saccharine pleasantries
melt into a hollow core.

Barren earth, no matter,
no life for coaxing.

I meant to wake you to say
that this is not love.
I meant to warn you that the passions
are too easily misinterpreted.

But I shrugged it off
rolling back over to fall dreaming.

I dream that somehow someone somewhere
made me write in tender fountains again.

I dreamed I was cunningly groomed
into mild vulnerability.
I dreamed I felt an anchor of trust
that held me in the depth
that I sought to undress.
I dreamed I was stripped willingly,
and that the soft parameters of our lives
became art where they grazed each other,
sprouting gardens and growing into hot beds
where stars are nursed.

I woke from that dream into another where you
slide up close against my back and whisper

What was it like to consume another,
to cling to each syllable that fell from their lips,
to absorb all of their inspirations?

Once I felt men move through my arms into my fingers
and out of my pen.
Once I felt them ring through my chest and out of my mouth
in churning melodies.

Once it seemed that there was endless nuance to probe
for art and life.
I shunned the muses!
Devoured lover’s stories,
making them my own.

I meant to wake you,
to tell you,
that this is love,
but it is not art.
It does not turn me inside out
and wring joyous salt from my skin.

I make my own electricity.

And we pause to understand
how lust ages,
and how it withers
faster than us.

To witness
how love perishes.
To follow good intentions
where they lead.

My verse is ordinary,
and love was a noble work.
Maybe as noble as art.


Photographer Unknown


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