There is no way to stretch six months of love
across fourscore and ten.

The decades shrug it off.

No way to weave the thinning threads to cosy up old age,
silk-sooth the brittle weft, the aging warp of joints.

You might eke out the days with sex,
pretend you’ve captured what escaped–
but still, the silent mornings take their toll.

You might dilute the last remaining drops
to spread across the years,
take what you will from childbirth, work and friends—
the quiet joys the mags all recommend.

But other kinds of love cannot come close—
cannot get near the mad muddied need
that sent you diving from a cliff top into silent waves,

cracking your skull against his granite chest.