I can no longer wear monogamy
like a buffalo robe
to protect me from shivers
even though the heavy weight of warmth
has kept me safe.
It is not springtime
but I need to take it off
and be exposed to the elements
that call me.
The naked you
from whom I avert my eyes sometimes,
the sagging pouches
of our shared indulgence,
the grey hair trying to send a message,
insistent at my roots
… this is not a pretty picture,
but a real one.
There is a way I stand bereft
in your company,
and now that you are gone
I see the emptiness is mine.
I hope you will return
before the final departure.
I long for us to find,
or even look for together,
a new way to shiver.
I want day and night
to kiss our trembling shapes
with abandon,
infusing us with a mercy
that is not our own only.
Passion as a tender cry of loneliness
met,
a singing of the blues in the body,
a moan of doubt
more beautiful
than the rough vigour of certainty.
My love for you is changing shape
and I am terrified
and not yet bold.
I do need more
than you can ever give,
and want to spill my sweetness
into an endless spring.
This kind of ache
can turn into anger
at the small room,
forgetting
that the corridors are endless,
that we can live only in one place
at one moment,
quivering,
not even in sync,
but very near.
Forgive me if you can
for the way I have worn
this shared robe;
let us gently remove it
and place it on the sacred ground
to catch the wind’s caress
on our intermingled skin.