We don't ever go there...not in our polite conversations
Not with our closest confidants
And strangers may not take it in the manner it was given
We don't ever go there because it became taboo.
Somewhere along the timeline
From the caveman who was really quite rude
To the romantic era where poetry was at the height of entertainment
We don't ever go there because of the moral box.
Love is merely a name of that which makes us happy
A word used with our unbridled pleasure
Roses growing wildly or in a row emitting aroma so sweet
That the ripe strawberry imitates with the tongue.
We don't ever go there and when it wanes with time
A thief like a black cat takes our energy
Dripping the passion along the wooden floor at night
A loss so subtle we rarely mourn.
Intimacy is the acknowledgment of a physical need
Renewal of our self-discovery of the wild creature
Who roams the earth in forgotten dreams
We don't ever go there to capture it once it is stolen.
Softly it leaks from our souls without a sound
We feel its departure but rarely fight to renew our intimacy
Our love of our physical reaction
Dies like the rose budding on the vine.
Love or Intimacy or Intimacy or Love?
Choosing one over the other is not necessary
We don't ever go there, we don't ever say "I live for Intimacy"
But you should...nothing in life renews your soul
like raw physical intimacy.
barb
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