No longer a matter of days
Or really months
Too many to count
The insidious click as years pass
Can you remember the feel
Now replaced by what
The soulless touch of fingers
Where is the embrace
The touch of flesh against flesh
The shared moan of intimacy
All relegated to a diminishing memory
What you want so very much
Now corralled by growing standards
Of what must be before…
A forever commitment
A promise impossible to find
Yet your pen is rampant
With not love , but lust
Unbridled in its creativity
Yet the memory of deceit
Crumbles your needs, desires
You dream of the coronation of a new love
Yet a successor was never named
It is the solitude that births the fear
Of oneself, of ever giving again.
