I'm Still Talking

I don’t want to talk about love again.

I don’t want to talk about love, again.

I do not want to, talk…, about love,

again.

I don’t wanna.

Love has been so weird to me,

and I’ve been weird to it.

This intangible ether of chemical

attraction mixed with physical reaction

to sexy stimuli, this…love.

Perhaps that’s lust.

Perhaps I fall into lust a lot,

instead of love.

Perhaps I confound the two,

which might make some sense.

I wonder if it’s socially acceptable

to tell some one how in lust you

are with them.

Is lust a dirty word?

Is lust dirty, naughty and kept in the shadows?

I like talking about lust,

it does feel like you’re in a secret club,

dancing to some throbbing electric beat

in time with your heart as you sweat and smile

and hold a gyrating body close in the flashing neon.

The smells and sounds infiltrate your senses and

your unable to control your urges to dive head first

into the shallow pool of pleasures and hedonistic

desire, hoping the pool will catch you and embrace

your high diving passions.

Electrically overwhelmed with attraction buzzing

through the neurons and synapses in your brain,

perhaps hoping these lusty desires will evolve into

that bright shining light and purity, deigned as to

be elevated to love.  

I guess I’m still talking about love.

I guess I’m STILL talking about…, love.

I guess I’m still talking.

I guess.