POEM - Armagnac 88

The body often wants

what the heart can’t have

So take the entire, existential day off,

and see if we may make peace

with that fact

But know that I don’t mean

the kind of peace which holds hands

through a hymn;

I’m talking about two satisfied figures,

lying nude beneath the private light

of steamy stained-glass

You probably suspect I’m not afraid

of sampling all your spices,

but I doubt you accurately estimate

just how deep my hunger for you runs

  

The hourglass is spilling our chances

with every silent breath we take

And I, for one, am not interested

in being emptied of legs to stand on,

never having felt my toes in your sand

That doesn’t make me Frankenstein;

doesn’t make you his monster

We’re simply something akin to vampires,

and it isn’t blood we dream of sucking

  

I understand how much you sacrifice

for the tame stability of love

However, there’s a powerful piece

of passion, which we’ve both forsaken,

and I would offer that neglected vein

an intoxicating pulse, and fresh flesh;

free of charge

There is nothing that I would rob you of,

save the suicide of your sensuality

So keep your world

the way you fought to have it,

but kindly risk more

than the thought of me

within that pair of wet panties

you’re always wearing