A few weeks ago, an evening coming back from New York City, I wrote this poem on the train. The commute was so slow, that I got the chance to read it and rewrite it on my notepad in a cleaner fashion on the next page, with some typos. Interestingly, it was one of the few times I rode one of the new two-level trains. Indeed, I was mulling over physical love, and true love, as someone had sent me an email to invite me to an anti-Valentine's Day party, after I my flowers remained in my mind just undelivered. I did not go, so I wrote Sex Without Love.
Sex Without Love
Sex without love is a thorn in the heart
that exults the flesh as it weakens the soul…
Sex without love is the city at large
with all her scents of casual events
that entices the passion and denies the true love.
Sex without love is not a word or two
that soon got together and sooner turned apart.
Sex without love is the not thought step
to deliver her inner realm without getting to know
that the spirit is good when dominating the flesh
and forgiving the bones for they have gone wrong.
Sex without love is the paradox of solitude
for it suddenly turns into repeating déjà vu.
Sex without love is the city of no control
it is rejection at large, pressuring true beings
not the integral ones that are hidden below
like two flowers that open together at once.
Sex without love is the gross risk
to give away what is destined to the wise.
Sex without love is a thorn in the heart
that grows in despair with the kidnapped soul
the body surrendered, submitted to the violent power
the flesh delivered, the entangled carmine silhouette.
And at times, also, sex without love
is the price and the rest of the vicious lover.
And is it perhaps that sex without love
is always the paroxysm of the hedonic lover,
and the reward or freedom of the pleasant lover…
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