Bitter Pill [poem]
It is cruel that I must burn for you and you for me
to no avail, despite the crownly metaphors of love
which freed me up from chains around my inward
parts, body’s limitations which I falsely had remarked.
But your undeserved affliction must take precedence
for now, although my reticence or staylessness or
failure to surrender all my lonely roamly life for yours
to do with as you will could soon become a bitter pill.
You almost beg me just to come, be with you anyway,
without the twine of bodies’ own hypnotic cobra sway.
But such proximity will draw the smoothly velvet drapes
and then the nakedness beneath our clothes escapes.
I wish I could unbridle all my crazy craving lust.
The one case when we (almost) crossed the line (though
interruptus double-crossed our extemporé time) has
cracked apart and melted down the ice-thin layer of trust
and now it seems that fate has deemed:
Remain alone we must.
© 2012, Alan Morrison
The Naked Troubadour 