Love not like the novices do,
intently, purposefully.
Now that you know the ropes, you can swing on them.

Love like over-ripe peaches: too sweet, too juicy, fit to burst.
Love like the wild ones who howl at the moon
and seek at dawn with satiate ease
their beds of oblivion.

Love like beasts with your more brittle bones.

Love not like the wide-eyed beginners
who have carved neither deep grooves for rivers to run through
nor rough outcrops to act as footholds.

Love like the old hands who smile at the memory of novelty,
but seek at dusk the faded pages
of their shared history.

Read aloud to each other.
Read each other
with ravaging eyes, plundering fingers,
forgiving and forgiven bodies.

Ignore the typos.




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