I set my pulse
To the rhythm of the clock
They make perfect lovers
Caught in a wanton throe

Sometimes it doesn't matter
A cello speaks more eloquently
My tenderness –
My vulnerability –
My fire, my overwhelming desire
Served on a rusty platter
Alongside a still beating heart

Sometimes I wish for more
Beauty, which begets love
Or lust –
Which is sometimes good enough

All I know is I am happier
When I've heard from you
But even that sounds unlike how I mean it
A cello speaks more eloquently

I set my pulse
To the rhythm of the clock
They make perfect lovers
Waiting in tenderness
In vulnerability
In wanton desire –
For a first, or last

throe.