Quarter of a Month

Has sex lost its sanctity?
When did it become caustic for me to adulate you?
Or postured when I touch your skin -
A soupçon of ardor, does it reach your bones?
When did my body become a pied-à-terre
for the bleating consequences and muted rhapsodies
that colour our own Decauxes?
Does it mean nothing for me to sigh,
as your eyes flutter, urgent wings of a butterfly
dancing upon the soft undulations of your visage?
Is all this gone forever, pushed through grills
like words of ancient wisdom in our year of the bored.

We are tethered to bittersweet memories untold,
inclined to believe they are stuck to the soles
of our shoes, dragged for the ride until we want to pick at them again,
but dragged through Apathy's bitter war with Cupid.
It picks an arrow here, a point-55 there
And its bitter blood taint our tears;
That trickle unevenly down my cheeks, out
from reddened eyes that have seen too little of your face.