The Pear-Woman

Sometimes I let my hopes get up.
Twenty-two months today. Congratulations.
I forgot how to speak, I forgot about passion,
I forgot how you’d love when I bent you down.

Next time I’ll tell her: “This is who I am,”
I know the words now. I know why now.
The reasons I feel the way that I do.

This is all just a trial in patience, and lust,
and determination, and Lust.

Every move you make is like the song of a siren.
Every contour and curve of your body is like some flawless,
marble sculpture of Aphrodite.
Your hips are two ivory pearls,
as distracting, intoxicating, illuminating, and alluring
as a pale, full moon on an otherwise light-less night.

…
I need to get out more.

January 2017