People are all different; I know that you know.
But people who claimed – once! -to be lovers so near,
and still find it easy to require a fidelity demanded of you,
and who don’t choose to hug you, and who don’t care to
thrive in your
presence, in your
eyes, in your
alive so damn ought,
so damn dreadfully sought,
are colder than cold ever was.
And when they don’t hug you, and when they don’t smile,
and when they don’t touch you in those places of love,
don’t tell me I’m asking for perfections unreasonable:
all I want,
all I need,
all I desperately desire,
is a kindness real special,
not for hire.