Our self-restraint appalls me. If we were
only weak, better, strong enough to lay
aside the others, cradle the way
you and your loose aura of smells and hair
do. We both know we’re ready. Fear
retains us, of friends and what they say,
of the rush when we let come what may
and public inhibitions disappear.
I trust you, Better Side, keep the upper hand.
They want us to please, but just to please.
Yet were we to find an empty room,
an afternoon to meet with nothing planned ….
Standing, inhaling, giving good-by bises
is breathing proof of all that I presume.
Not sloth but thought of you keeps me abed.
I summon you up, nuzzling the sheets
as if mere want might lie in your stead,
my hands manage to rival our feats.
I no longer hold you in my sleep.
Even when you feature in a dream
I pinch myself awake. No slumber’s deep
enough to mask you’re not the mate you seem.
Why should I rise and dress if not in quest
of you, who’ve led me to this cul-de-sac?
More than absence leaves me this depressed.
Finding you would never bring you back.
If pain be proof of love, then love it must
have been. If not, what pain there is in lust.
> Memory the Mockingbird