You make my body quiver,
shake with passion caged.
Each breath I take shivers,
as my mind screams no, enraged.

My heart and body disagree,
calling out their qualms
all the while I kneel and plea
my hands pressed palm to palm.

But we’re not Shakespeare’s palmers
kissing hand to hand.
I try to rise, now calmer,
but find I cannot stand.

I duel against my love for you, blow by blow by blow
I cannot win against myself, my love can only grow.

I’ll not think love at this age,
but I’m a hypocrite assuaged.
A liar in my dying right,
spread gasoline and then ignite
the blaze of want and desire,
watch my flames lick the fire.
But then you make a thrilling twist,
dampen the rage, remove my cysts
from my thoughts and my soul,
my former self but a ghoul.
And I can no longer see,
the blighted thoughts of younger me.
Yet at the same time, I still wonder:
Have I been ripped asunder?
My very being become otiose,
my speaking words, too verbose.
Nevertheless, I’m quite at peace,
as if I’ve become one deceased.

Sometimes I sense you in my bones
seeping through my marrow,
flitting through my veins,
each footstep in time with a heartbeat.
I know you well.
I have known you well.

At times there is guilt,
stalling your departure
from my life.
Yet, still, I delight.
You are a detriment,
but like a tapeworm
to anorexic,
you are lovely to me in mind.

Hours flow like kisses,
too few, too fast.

It is too cold this January
to not intertwine.

Permit, if you will,
my hands to mesh with yours.
Please, allow me to rest my head upon your chest
for a brief moment;
scrutinize the heart that pounds
within.
Please, consent my eyes
as they stare yours down,
triangulating on every weakness.

May I kiss you?
On the cheek and then the neck
and perhaps, the mouth?

In stilted moonlight
while the clowns
and comics sing
their soliloquies
to an unseen
audience
and insomnia reigns,
beneath my cellar door
I keep you
in memories
and jars.
I am no
Frankenstein,
creating monsters
from parts.
It is only because
you cannot be
saved
in photobooks
or stories.

My Dad
used to write
notes on post-its:
reminders
affirmations
his love.
I’ve
taken up the habit
in his absence.