Don’t Change

Tell me, love: Was it magic, a genuine outburst, followed by

a need to knead and mold a captured soul? We flowered and

petals wilted and something graphic melted a sky. I was so

robotic, and so enchanted, and love was structured, and love

was science. So many physiological moments, where an

aftermath was a cigar and gin on the rocks, even a high five.

Love wasn’t so sacred, an invention, even a response to

stimulation, and the company of beauty. How to grip something

elusive? It must have been the company; or such a bond, where

chemistry induces neurotransmitters. Indeed, was it ever the

same: a midnight laugh; a tiny joint; even kama sutra. I ask—

afraid it is the same: a new touch; a bulky laugh; even a richer

love. Is this like fate: to strip a moon; to write remembrance;

even to conjure up images of a not too shy seductress.