Eulogy
There were days when love was pure and personal,
days when the only person that could hold me
was you, not free-for-all groping;
there were days where people sang bars
about his eyes, her hands, the things we did–
not songs of supply and demand,
of ephemeral shudders and replacement;
there were days of slow love making,
soul shuddering shatters of the sound barrier,
the noise level sticky and roped,
the enlargement of the pores oozing sweat
to admit the air, the wind, the earth,
the vulnerability of emotional fronts –
there were days when love was death
and no one cared, and they hurtled
themselves into it, when passion lived
in beings rather than swelling
and moistening of loins and tongues and pulses;
there were days when love was earned
and not traded; there were days
when love belonged.
Fantastic.