Love, as it now appears to me

My dear, Love

Is sometimes not a kiss

Or sex;

Sometimes, it’s sitting on a dusty bench

On your roof; under the clothesline

Heavy with wet clothes, 

Peering into the white orb

Of melancholy and madness, 

Hanging in the grey star-dotted horizon, 

Listening to jazz and blues, 

Feeling your lungs wheeze, 

When you yearn for booze

And cigarettes. 

And wondering, if somehow, 

One day

With all those around you, 

That love you, 

Contented, and yet 

If the feeling, 

The creep of want

Of skin against yours, 

Of sweat raining out of your pores, 

As you kiss skin, 

Will ever stop haunting you. 

And even though you despise the others, 

If you will ever stop needing all that’s human. 

My dear Love, 

There’s a fire inside me, yes

It can take forms, 

For worse or the best, 

As it pleases, 

So choose the one

That will keep you burning alive

As you come in my life;

And I swear, I’ll choose

The poison in you, 

That’ll keep killing me 

With you.