Old Men Make Sad Lovers
written by: Imarkanx
You do not love me;
it is a fanciful impossibility
that spring would long for autumn
in any shape or form.
My peaks are tinged with snow,
while yours spill over in bountiful curves,
firmly filling out your dress.
The feel of your breasts,
compressing between our bodies,
stirs me to stop thinking
and simply react.
We merge in breaths,
tumble into your sheets,
untangle into tangled urgency.
In that moment, I rediscover
I am rampant youth;
let myself slide into desire,
embrace fanciful impossibility,
doubling back, again and again,
plunging into the moment
with relentless momentum.
You voice your approval,
sounding and resounding
in sweet diatonic beat;
sonata allegro, crescendo complete.
We lie still in connection.
And then I remember you cannot love me,
even after this sweetness,
even as you whisper that you do.
I wander to the shower,
scrubbing myself clean,
letting your scent swirl away,
futile ablution
to keep you from haunting my dreams.
Yet the ghost of your perfume keeps clinging,
follows me home,
as I resist
the sweet, lingering evidence,
that this isn’t delusion,
that you really did mean what you whispered.
- Old Men Make Sad Lovers - March 22, 2026
