So, the expressions of ardour, are they now a silence, gift wrapped in grief and staleness? Is the longing kept on this side of the fence, with the vast paddocks in darkness? Do you walk back in to wait for sleep to hold you?
I could be happy. I have friends and gigs, passport stamps and fine dining.
But are you though, with the buttoned coat of frayed lust and your maleness unseen in cold and heat? Or are you just too old, to have the force from your abdomen lead you, legs first to take a lover?
It changes, the tinnitus of want will one day stop ringing in your ears.
I fear the night without the nightingale.
(I have to stop using this photo of A.D. Hope for any old, previously sexual men. I mean, he is dead after all.)