*** life gone conceptual
My loved one now asexual
Online erotica and poetry
Supports for monogamy
Relieving some tension
Building up the frustration
Mind set on one finality
Bring back her sexuality

A life together so short lived
Yet many things to experience
Of our tree of ****** wisdom
You are my forbidden fruit
Delicious proscribed delicacy
Leading to my ****** satiety
Accessible yet untouchable
For fear of the consequences
I'm abusing diverse outlets
To let go of the frustration
Hoping daily for a derogation
As I crave for a juicy bite

Feelings or Conceptions?
Emotions or Infatuation?
Love or Curiosity?

Is it wrong for me to question my inclinations?
To question my motives and reasons for loving someone?
Is it wrong for me to wonder whether or not I’m just attracted to one’s sensuality?
Perhaps consumed by their visual enticement—
Whether or not I’m just captivated by the unknown territory teasing me away from the norm?
Possibly seduced by the inexplicable euphoria unattainable by other desirable methods––

I am left confused,
Conflicted,
And in question.

Being inside of you
arouses my creative impulse
why do I neglect this ingress
and its ecstasy?

I love blueberries.  I love the groves
of almond trees
you see as you drive up to
Sacramento.
I love anchovies and
raw broccoli.
I love Spanish wine and the feel of
your tongue when I am
down between your legs.
I love Jacques Brel, and the piles of peaches
that appear in stores late
in the spring.  I love gin and tonic, Alexander
Calder’s
mobiles, and the
early novels of
Philip Roth. I love laying in
bed with you
looking at
pictures of
Greece.
I love smoked salmon,
especially on a bagel toasted
with a little bit of butter.
I love lemon drops,
Frank Sinatra, and e.e.
cummings.
I love the smell of
eucalyptus trees and those
long,
flat
strips of
bark
that
peel
off
their
trunks
like
paper.

“Oh, what a wonderful wedding,”
Croons my best friend from across the table
“Yes, what a wonderful wedding,”
Swoons her worst enemy, agreeing,
Then, in unison strains, they both nod, decisive,
“Oh, yes, but what a shame,”
I blink, intrigued by the news ‘bout to break,
All whilst stabbing a fork at cake.
“The pure bride in white is a *****.”
They say, voices cacophonic and melodic,
“Her husband isn’t the one,
The one she hasn’t met yet,”
I sit between them, innocent,
Now utterly unengaged to the conversation,
Eating fondant; confounded; I don’t even know
Who the pure ***** bride in white is