He accused me once
of being his immortality,
virile lust made forever
by words that haunt
those who read them.
Don't ask why he had to return,
had to press just once more kiss
to the one he left behind
so many times---
Don't tell him why
he feels the itch,
the urge,
why he needs to engage
when every lick of sense
says "damn, you know better."
I knew he would pull in
moments before the sound
hit my inner ear---
I'd heard him not sleeping
like i don't sleep
since his last farewell.
You write poetry to me
such unique words
making me oh so young again---
the only time you resort to cliche
is when you're halfway out the door,
stammering things you don't mean,
certain it will all feel better
when you get far enough away.
Don't ask, don't tell
and we will do neither
but still I touch your photo
wondering what mojo you own
that makes me say your name
to every phase of the moon.
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