This Isn't About You, Unless It Is
I miss the summer fun we used to make,
the cuddlenudging snugglebunched loveplay:
I'd give fleshworship that you'd gladly take
in my bed on a slumbrous Saturday.
Some years have passed since we liveblogged our split;
we were & are much better as 'just' friends:
you laugh at all my jokes & crackbrained wit;
I cherish blankets knitted by your hands.
We've settled into slow late middle-age,
a 'gentle night' against which we don't rage.
We take life on life's terms. We muddle through.
Feverish passion? Oh, too tired for that!
But still, at fifty-three, unpartnered, fat,
I do get lonely. And I think of you.
Poetry by Uncle Meridian
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Written on 2022-09-30 at 08:14
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