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Darling,

I don’t want
these 5 minute
or one night
petty ecstasies.

I want a somnabulant
sort of drunkenness –

first, chastely sweet,
gently rolling around
in naive yearning
that was lost in time,
but recovered in memory –

like the infant’s
instinctual roving
for a mother’s nipple;

the involuntary choke
on the first sip
of cheap lager.

Do you remember?

No, no.
Not yet, cheri –

let us slowly revel
in this painful divinity,
that will last as long
as these mad, sad summers
that you complain of.

© Zelda Reville

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