In this small room, where we one shadow cast--
A bouncing bug, legs twitching, on its back--
The walls are jet
For with one motion we have made them black.
See how it dies, our captured silhouette,
Starless and fading, for we have at last
Covered our wounds with love's red tourniquet,
Leaving us only touch to guide our hands
And satisfy the urge of our demands.
For even in the dark we close our eyes
And trade our names as if we are unsure
Of who we touch:
We make of what we cannot see a pure
Dark bliss of sighs and sightlessness, so much
That as we join, we do it in disguise,
Masking ourselves to make our love endure.
For love needs night, like cattle need their mangers:
At night, even the old make love as strangers.
And as we dress each other with our dreams,
Who knows but that this room will sympathize,
Since it has known
A thousand other throats to match our sighs,
A thousand tenants who left it alone,
As we will leave; so like a room, it seems,
Is love, that holds, and hopes, and dares, and dies--
Its rented heart doomed to an empty center,
As we are doomed: to pierce, but never enter.
copyright 2010 Matthew J Wells