A set of three poems:
Dearest Dear,
I love you. And it's not your fault. There was nothing either of us could have done.
There was no fighting, no cheating, no crying in the backyard or screaming until the neighbors called the police. There was no fizzle, no limp, no exhalation or sigh. To be honest, I have seen this coming for months. Like winter or perhaps spring, it crept through the air and into my chest.
I see it in the way he pours his coffee and sips his tea. In the shape of his breast, the curve of his thigh, the depth of his kiss and the shade of his cheek.
I love you and it can't be your fault. There was nothing either of us could have done.
I am not a scientist and you were never born.
I'm sorry for using you like this.
For closing my eyes and seeing our life together. You and I and Milton in bed. Naked on a rainy day reading our favorite passages from memory.
I know you were never a Milton man. I should have known.
But I wanted you to be. I wanted it so badly.
So I mummified you. Filled the skin with the memory of someone who was dead.
Cremated your soul to wear your shell.
I am truly sorry for your loss.
But to tell you the God's honest truth,
If I had to, I'd do it again.
There are, there have been plenty of men that were better in bed. Better kissers, and all.
But no one, and I mean no one else has ever whispered to me about the 104th Congress like you.
And when I'm with him, and I'm moaning as you know I do.
I can't quite explain why "This feels better than Newt's lecture at liberty," is such a natural response.
