It used to be

ecstatic:

 

a feast of flesh

served upon

 

a plate of love.

 

It used to be

sensuality’s serendipity,

 

nor does my memory

exaggerate the way

 

I found you beautiful.

 

That look that lingered

on your face,

 

the race of heartbeats,

touch of skin on skin

 

electrified my life

& left my pulses

 

whirring.

 

But now it’s more like

shaking hands:

 

although, still we slot

cracks & crevices

 

we forgot, fit cleverly

together.

 

Yes, now it’s more

what love is not

 

& where we’ve been,

between,

 

has left an imprint

we can’t blot, now love

 

has run,

 

at last the muse

has left us.