for those who wander, wonder & define life on their own terms

Love & London

IMG_1718A love poem:

My love done flew away.  I had something

and semi set it free.  If it comes back I won’t

keep it…it’s on loaner from the owner.  My man;

London pulled him over the sea.

 

Now he has to buy tight running pants.  Maybe not

today, but he can’t look like an old fart jogging

through the park.  Some girl with teeth better than

I dreamed, might see his fashion indescretion and

look at him with a question in her eyes.  Why?  But, tight

around his package and his thighs?  Sigh.  Maybe

there’s something in between.

 

Spring.  And summer.  I wonder how I can get through

without his touch, and his bedtime routine.  Brush, floss,

Listerine even if he’s dead on his feet.  Hygiene in his

sleep.  Maybe it’s a sin, but I sleep with dirty teeth.  Watching

him is enough for me.  But London, that mother, now gets

to be his partner, friend with dental benefits.  That big city bitch.

 

I’d like to switch.  Sleep on his hard bed.  Warm my towel

on that radiator.  Take three flights down to walk on drizzly

streets.  Take three flights up to be just me and he, he and I,

and wait for naked lady to return across the way and prepare

for another date…or bed.  We’re unpaid spies.

 

Of course,  this is all in my head which yearns for more.  Time

and space.  I’m still waiting, a pillow in his place while I lay

reading and longing.  There’s so much I miss.  He may

not be mine to keep, but I am his.

 

 

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