Member-only story
Maybe This Fire of Passion
A Poem
I would love to be the editor of your soul, dear Asha, and keep it all straight up and down.
My love is not conditional, not like those other dismal guys who line up outside your door hoping to make you soar.
The hull of my ship may be rusty, but I’m still more robust than they are, the serial boys who are trying to be a shaman and induce you into visions.
I can begin scraping off that which does not beautify, but it’s unlikely you’ll treat me any differently, not in the sense that you mean to deliver punishment, but rather that you like me for the way that I am.
My father raved about the self-government of a man, but I preferred to sniff out the female form, hoping one day I would relocate to your bosom as you would unveil it.
I haven’t been that promiscuous, my love, but just worry about whether I’m worthy of your touch.
You could show me footage of your constant trysts and I’d just smile, the skin and size of the men pluralistic in their various looks.
If you were a panelist on the show all about my desires, you’d tell the secret of how we once did it on the hardwood and afterward had smoke until were plenty baked, down to our toes.
