As you grow older
it becomes more and more difficult to
lie
in bed alone.

In the half-waking mind
lost bits of perfume
and the musk of unwashed sheets
confirm the presence of a lover - now ethereal.
Grasping is vain.
Inhale and begin:

Search your hands, first, for the scent; it fades quickly.
Do you recall the texture of their skin? Was it different than your own? Did their lips part for you? Did their eyes close for you? Did they smile a satisfied smile for you?

And sometimes the bed feels crowded as more aggressive specters provoke responses: wielding the memories of their former offenses they vie with the present for attention.

The bed is not a place for cool transcendence.
It is, I suppose, like a pagan incarnation: the word becomes flesh. But the word is eros – and that makes it a heresy.
The unfeeling bliss of detachment is as blood in a glass: the stuff of Noah’s shame and Christ’s communion commingle in the ruby liquid of nirvana.
My tactile satisfaction led to release, and surrender.
Deep in my cups I surrender again.
Trample fruit, beauty - wine for us to drink.
Paradise without sensation is closer than love without feeling.

I want it: now
imminence.

Once upon a time – a time not so very long ago – people fucked and gave birth, people fell ill and died on hunks of wood and feathers bound up in cloth.
And between that bed and the table all of life was divided.

Allow me to fulfill our stereotype for you: let me worry my hair back, again and again; let my eyes be black; let my skin be oily, and olive, and somewhat transparent; let my hands be large - filled with veins; let me be possessive. And most important of all: let me shift quickly.
My mercurial countenance is indicative of my race. I am prepared - quite spontaneously - to fall in love. I am ready to love, and hate, and cry, and laugh; things can’t happen too quickly for me now.
Presto.
Presto:
I wish that you would appear
again...

I am Latin.