What have we done but love?

What have we done but love,

my love?  This world is dried up

and we’re stuck

in time.

My body arched, your lips

pursed and coiled, you crawl

from behind for easy reach.

Your hands grasp

and rhythmically entrance

my muscles while I long

to taste

someone new.

 

But what have we done but love,

my love?

Time led our virtue to the grave,

left embraced by the worms

of decay.  Are we decomposing?

Yes, but the sun stands still

in the wake of my arrival.

You

are nothing but a connection

of warm blood and veins

in your young ripe age.

Love,

my love, does not wait

in the oil fields of the earth

or the gold rivers of ’49

waiting to be discovered.

It is in matching pulses

like ready puzzles pieces,

but ours don't fit.

I do not want you,

but I love

that you love

me.

 

Do not worry about us, dear,

for what have we done but love,

my love?