spoon

so. it has begun.

the smooth cold curves leave me bereft, dreaming
of your living flesh:
where else can one find such delight in the organic?

they slip away too firmly, cruel artlessness:
resisting needy fingers,
lonely minds.

- - -

you, you were soft and strong and warm,
friction of skin on skin and thought
on tensile thought:
a mirror.

your successor grants me a blurred reflection,
a constant haze obscured in distorted shadows.
no, not i, these curves know me
not:
but we are both cold
and artless
now.