use to be

why is it that I stand
when you call and demand
for my ear or my hand

at least it used to be

but there is no need for me
your wounds are fast in healing
and your self is fast approaching
becoming whole and free

what use is there for crutches
for beards and mustaches
when kisses
and touches
are simple to obtain

the stares and sidelong glances
start to impair
the sense that all is fair

the poems
undo the illusion
that no one gets hurt

and when nothing can be salvaged
from an accounting of what is healthy
and what is not
what questions does one wonder
in the heavy night

the only answer I know
is to let absence and silence
do their soft eroding
on a love neglected and scorned