Sorry Dylan, but Despair
does not come or go gently
into good or bad night.
He visits and stays and stays and
makes himself at home
tearing through all the rooms
drinking all your best booze
doing up all your drugs
upsetting the pillows on the couch
sweating in your sheets.
I know Despair, intimately.
He is a passionate lover.
He knows how to get inside
all the soft spots.
His tongue eases into your mouth
for a warm, wet hot-fudge kiss
that goes inside.
He blows his breath deep
into your throat and fills
all the chambers of your lungs.
Eyes closed, you feel him
in your body and welcome
his familiar embrace.
His ragged fingernails draw
circles around your nipples.
Despair makes friends with logic
and finds no reason
to count more days;
no feeling to feel more eloquent than himself.
He visits and stays and stays and
you are the perfect host.
You graciously make him welcome
but, he knows no compassion
and you forget connections
and you forget that once
passion grew flowers
in and on your belly and
the perfume of you
made the days
pass in pleasure.