I’d praise how our bodies perfectly entwine,
if this were some romantic verse. It isn’t.
It’s the cruder modern kind in which
your bony elbow jabs me in the ribcage,
your razor toenails scrape my naked calves,
and your hard cock that gave me pleasure before
kind of annoys me now that I want to sleep,
but when you roll over, you take all the covers with you,
leaving me cold.
Like us, that story’s old.
In my fantasies, you’re someone who
doesn’t concuss me with flailing arms or keep
me awake some nights with raucous snores,
but in reality, that’s not even half–
the book would have at least a hundred pages.
The sex is fine, but sleeping with you’s a bitch.
Yet my love, my love, is still consistent:
I wrote you this poem, and it even rhymes.
T. Allen Culpepper