Warm In Mourning
See me. Feel me. Touch me. Heal me.
You awaken one morning
to a world
irrevocably changed
and no way back.
By the time
you can remember
sixty years,
you know that
even crumbling bodies
still have
ears that hear,
eyes that see,
a body that
can ache for beauty
it will never
again touch.
Lust becomes
an abstract painting
admired from afar,
embers rather
than flames,
scorching
decrepitude,
reminding you,
though the flesh
falters, desire
still belongs
in your pile
of morning pills,
swallowed in
a place of ruin,
remote from reality,
but vivid
in imagination,
penetrating your mind
as you used to
penetrate bodies.
Music faltering,
but not forgotten,
still arousing,
though you cannot
cleave to it,
echoing in the
the heart’s chambers,
keeping you alive
in a world
devoid of lovers,
though still warm
beneath the covers.
