We learn at tender ages

that passion is to be buried,

nasty secrets like moldy garbage

fit only for worm fodder. 

so we clothe our desires

in justifications and rationalizations.

Small wonder we loose love

so easily these days . . .

we pretend noble intents,

camouflage lust

in softest satins

and repeat an endless litany . . .

“He I love”.

Struggling pubescent,

terrified by feelings,

told endless times

sex must be saved

for the one you marry.

So when primal urgings

rose stronger than I could bear

I told myself

if upon awakening

no guilt was felt,

this was love.

So bedded, woke, no guilt existed . . .

Must be the one.

Yet night upon endless night,

staring at cracks in the ceiling,

willing myself to sleep

I ask . . .

“Is this all there is?”

Finally admitting

love is no match

than glory dreams

of the fantasy years.

It ended . . .

So much needless pain

could have been averted

had I woken that morning

saying . . . .

“Ah, the pause that refreshes

. . . lust is great

and its appeasement even better.”