the hand is quicker than the I of exploration

reality bites
how cruelly unromantic
when there's no poetry in the dark
or savage wildflowers in the park
no warm glass of milk, no chocholate chip cookies,
no footsies under the breakfast table,

reality is an ugly dog from hell
baring its yellow teeth, snarling with the reminder
that the heart is a cold-hearted orb sometimes
and the daily grind
will pull you under with the weight of
its currency,

it's the bills and the balls being kicked again by a twisted
world and how I'm thinking I'd rather have
five hundred miles between us and the words of your
poetry, dripping,
the wanton heat of my unrequited flesh
beg, borrow or steal your long slender hands,
touching me deeply in places you have not yet visited,
not even in my dreams
when the clarity of your voice
on the cell phone, called to me in the time of our transiting,
when we were wired together,
still in transition from then to now,
(something is lost in the translation)

but here am I,
just as I think I've seen what remains in the hound's
killing eyes, without mercy, reason or rhyme,
you take me in your arms and kiss me,
you make me remember that flesh is weak
and my knees start sinking with desire,
I remember why I love you and why
skin is the only real thing of any true worth,
and exploring the world of discontent is not an
option when your touch breaks me down.