An Anesthesiologist Who Likes Aphrodisiacs.

Your hand, coarse and callous
like kindling that needs sanding
brushes me as you say "don't go"
in hushed tones of course,
no one else can know.
You always look away
as you beg me to stay
because the kinesthesiology
that eye contact brings
between us is too overpowering
for you to withstand.
With blanketed stares
and touching of hair
you melt me every time.
A pool am I,
collapsing to your floor
a fragment of what I was.
I gather in the middle
and you scoop me up -
suddenly your hands are
warm and soft.
They are now a reflection
of yourself.
You hide from those you love
with superfluous language
and outlandish ideas
you claim to be creative
yet you spew out your New York Times
while sipping your coffee
while smoking your pipe
while playing your music
Oh, original.
Do you even process
all the knowledge you absorb?
Or does it stay there just long enough
to be thrown into the wind
before you forget your statistics
and facts
and someone else's idea.
Oh, urban masterpiece,
your paint is running thin
The graffiti that masks you
is being covered with paint
the smell of which burns your nostrils
much unlike the drugs you intake
Oh, alcohol - a means of honesty
a means of shielding truth
a means of being you
unsheathed, uninhibited, pure
and loud.
You never shut up.
Just shut up.