Swipe left, swipe right, press this, click here, type there. Add her, not him or her, but her! But let’s wait and see. Will she like me, love me, or spurn me?
My heart glorifies chivalry, my flesh craves sensually, and my mind desires flattery. So I speculate, stipulate, imitate and postulate. But this does not compute, nor do my keystrokes impress upon her heart.
How does one sweat in the heat of the night’s fire, tears intensely shared between two pliable, wet clay vessels, caste in the mould of each other’s arms until dry? How does one conduct pillow talk with one’s own pillow?
Crumpled sheets spread across acres of fine green fertile fields, where roses sway against the vigour of the prevailing winds. Every crease and ripple is firm in form and curve. Winding and flowing into a single stream of living waters. And as we touch I grip and she contorts.
Never has a river so shivered, never have her waters so cried.
But now I must refrain from absent thought, indignant in diligence. Passive from one temptation to the next. Herein lies the test, to cherish these times of levity and hold onto the brevity of that sexual fire that stirs within to stoke the fires of another. Another lover who may know a more lasting love, and not just its ashes.
The Dating Game
Published
The Philosopher's Poet 