Maybe the fire of youth singed
nerve endings or scarred my heart
or maybe the intense conflagration
left only cold ashes, no fuel left
to kindle even one thin smoky line
of flare. I guess I should care.
I read love poems that aver
without passion life is empty
but I’ve not found it so.
I don’t desire, don’t need
that fever pitched agony
an explosion of emotion.
In this winter season
your love is persistent,
hearth warmth, steady heat,
comfortable, easy, peaceful,
a tingle of familiar.
The consolation of duration.


4 thoughts on “98.6

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