a poem i wrote about losing intimacy

"routine"

you had it in you once

could make me feel desired with just one touch

lips pressed to my ear, a hand around my neck 

fingers slipping cautiously deep down into my depths 

in newness you found passion

uncharted lands, a magellan making his map

but my body, of which you'd once known only a fraction

became familiar in its folds and patterns and gaps

the paths you'd discovered always led to the same old place

full of love and reunion but never a new face 

i laid there in silence as routine settled in,

and your touch became more like strict virtue than sweet sin

our trysts became rarer and rarer still

as there are new treasures to find, new roads to traverse 

and of these miscellaneous joys of life, say what you will;

i know the truth is that you've heard all my lines rehearsed

the feelings of a horrid ugliness and of shame 

in your steed became sadly mine to claim

"what a slut, what a whore!"—

you think to yourself, because i always am begging you for more 

and now the only desperate hands and pressing lips belong to me

but there is no passion left

so we move our bodies in a mockery

of the magic we once shared in your bed