His skin on my skin
It might make up for what I lack
His touch, freckled and smooth, heavy
His laughter, this warm body
might make up for
All the losers who just weren’t
Enough
The demons I wrestle with
Are getting smaller
It used to be such fun and turmoil
To wrestle with them.
There is only that I miss New York
And that I miss New England
But they are not all there anymore anyway
Or if they are we lost touch and I’d never know.
Maybe I shoulda held on and not let go
Maybe
Maybe not
It’s just that, once a writer, always a writer
Always this to make the heart beat
Not those who love you only while they can
Possess you
I got sick of “lesbians”
Wouldn’t anyone?
Now I have the normal life
My sister said I deserved
Everything is so normal that
I’m afraid of anything abnormal;
I had forgotten how to play.
This is nice.
Only thing I’m not sure of is commitment
As it leaves me no one else to talk or relate to
And maybe they left first.
Anyway, they left first.
