It used to be



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




But now it’s more like

shaking hands:


although, still we slot

cracks & crevices


we forgot, fit cleverly



Yes, now it’s more

what love is not


& where we’ve been,



has left an imprint

we can’t blot, now love


has run,


at last the muse

has left us.

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