midnights&

it's 12, or 1 am or even 2 or 3
and we have once again looked for love
in the less than fulfilling arms
of a transient yet comfortable familiar

nights feeling the warmth of a body
that is not the one we desire
yet we pretend, we ignore, we deny
it's easier than loneliness
or taking a chance at something real

the never satiating palliative
of the sexual act that leaves desiring
the fleeting activities of the moment
driving here, flying there--
the busy bee has no troubles

woe to the lonely afternoons of tedium
where we have to look at ourselves
no magic pill to make it all away
no dick or ass to help us forget
then what? who do we face?
do we go on pretending, hoping
that this life will become happiness?

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