Our heady days
of sex surprise
set us ablaze
between our thighs
and masked the fear
that nothing more
made us adhere
at thirty-four.
The sweaty heat
of burning lust
made Hope’s conceit
incongruous.
Your desperate grasp,
my frenzied kiss,
our unveiled gasp,
left us remiss.
The Future gave
this to impart:
“Though you’ve been brave,
you’re best apart.”
Razed callously,
we steeply fell.
Now, wondrously,
I wish you well.
Yes, on Love’s Day,
I wish you well,
though we’re away
yet parallel.
With glee, I keep
what I have lost:
Memory’s deep
and aching cost.
