Some of my friends say they worry
that I am being consumed by passion –
As if passion is a dangerous thing.
They say they don’t understand,
but because they care,
they issue veiled warnings about burnout.
What is it, this “thing” they’re jealous of?
True, I am afire. Not everything that exists can be explained.
Some days I’m like oiled water squeezed warm from a sponge,
the craving is so strong, so rich, so satisfying in its intensity,
it would be chocolate if it were food.
I throb. I yearn. I daydream. So what?
Every orifice aches for his fingers, his mouth,
the hot linear press of his hard body.
I long for him to devour me;
I covet every moment he is with me, in me.
I mourn silently when he is away.
We indiscriminately entwine body parts
and rub ourselves to flames. Raw with arousal, finality,
when we can take no more
we plunge again until sated;
we each become like chocolate.
Too enervated; time is so short.
Does no one notice the scent of burning flesh?
Talking obsessively, as if to bridge the space to come,
the only brutality perhaps,
but we don’t have to live with the consequences of our candour.
The friends have got it wrong.