an intellect's love poem

I would like to think of you clean,
sexless
because in my mind otherwise you'd have already been mine
you would have loved me, instead of her
not because my waist is smaller, which it is not,
but because her mind is smaller;
that it is.

What strange bedfellows we keep
you and I -
they're not you nor I
I keep my bed warm with the idea of you
while our hearts remain cold
to the idea of this

and the notion remains clinging to our bodies
like tight wet sheets with threadcounts
measuring low in the nether and high in the never -
we tear against this
only enough to find lethargy comfortable enough
to stop fighting.

I've never been the settling sort
my bed is a desert with fickle winds,
ever-changing dunes
but I would contain these shadows in a palm
if you wanted me to.

Your penis is here somewhere, stored in my mind between 'us' and that lobe which tells me happiness is a curse for the enlightened.

These dizzying swells swirl
and swallow me
I feel you
pushing
against the back of my throat
waiting
at the stem of my skull
where I keep you -

remind me why I hate all my lovers,

why they taste of this strange notion of you.