A Note

 

We have nothing

in common, but for some reason

I wish we did.

It is just desire,

just my balls talking to me again,

stupid biology that causes my brain

to trigger all those responses

of home, hearth, and caring:

love if you will.

Yet I know it’s just

an illusion.  Something someone put

in my mind when I grew

up.  It has always been

wrong before.  And I’m tired.

I am tired.

If I could rest

beside you, inside you

for a time or two;

the fire that is behind

my eyes, the lust to do

might consume itself,

crumbling into ashes, coals.

The heat that was left

would be for you.  Your body

could give me rest, perhaps

even clear the cobwebs in my head.

Though you’re right about avoiding

touching.  Next thing you know

someone cares and convinces

themselves that they love.

And someone gets burned

by the flames that are kicked up with

a passionate grasp of life.

Or the heat grows cold

without fuel.  Tears can

put out flame, and rain in winter

pounds the ashes of an old camp

into the dust.  You’re right,

we have nothing in common.

Still, I am so tired,

so terribly, terribly tired.

 

first published in Living With a Stranger: self portrait, 1993.  Also published in Love is Just Lust Misspelled, 1994.

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About johnsmithiiimxiii

John Smith, IIMXIII is the avatar of an award winning poet, artist, etc. who still lives in the Palouse country of the Pacific NW. He has not received much notice with his prose . . . but as his avatar, I hope that he keeps plugging along.

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