the clock nears three AM,
and the "five minutes to" alert
pops up,
long overdue,
uh oh,
a task in need of completion,
a guilty conscience,
a simple love poem
needs to be written!

more than most,
perhaps, best,
can't be sure,
but more than most
is holy satisfying
for me

more than most,
a standard met,
perhaps understated
yet, highly realistic

for is real
not
the edge that love needs
to transcend long beyond,
far after,
initial heated intimations,
the noisy, now ancient,
initiations

real,
that place where
fantasy connects
skin and hair,
bare shoulders,
that more than most,
I kiss with simple pleasure,
best described as,
sustained, sustainable,
better than
better

real,
is that not totally,
more than most?

I love you
more than most,
for to claim,
more than anyone,
who can tell?

so now
you sleep,
your blonde tresses messes
my damp pillow,
and i am satisfied,
content to claim,
that to love you more,
more than most,
is ample, profound,
real,
and by that,
indeed,
for that alone,
is excellence unsurpassed,
a measurable measure,
that satisfies my task
well

now can rightfully
deactivate that alert,
that "to do,"
done,
unto and until
some sleepless night,
when again,
it self-actualizes,
self-activates

while smiling down upon you,
more than most,
certain,
almost positive,
but never sure,
come morn,
that you will love,

this poem,
*more than most...

must
we
rely
on digital stimuli,
and
insist
on
disappearing
into a simulated screen?