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My left temporal lobe is throbbing out your name,

a ticking Morse code of your letters.

What momentary insanity in safety,

I saw a ladder above my head,

I saw a trapdoor under my feet.

But I cut the rope

and I lost the key.

And when all is chill and ache and waiting

my pleasure reflex needs reminding,

needs tantalizing with something moist,

like flesh or at least flesh tones,

like skin or at least skinned knees.

Oh that taste –

                     A toast!

Stand and raise your glasses children,

raise a glass to raising a glass,

to delight and to indulgence,

and to all the shades of purple.

To the soft wet licking

of overrated lips.

Amid the sweet sensation of

scabbed elbows, a bruise on your thigh,

on your hip bones lie the lusting

rub of those overexcited

passions which never got fulfilled.

And you.

      Oh you, oh fool oh lion oh how the times have changed.

Not a month ago your head was lying in my lap

and I was lapping love from your pores.