Is It Still Me?

 
When I see a woman I can be drawn to,
it's that I still honour her physical beauty,
that beauty can kindle in me a longing
for nakedness, for the act of love.


Is it still Me,
Is it still Me,
Or am I a dirty man
whose desires flow in unexpected channels?


Tell me—
to be charmed by a woman,
to want her,
to touch the silk of her hair,
to kiss and hold her close,
to stand open to courtship, with her blessing.


Does it matter that I can still drift into reverie with desire for a woman?
That I want to crown a candlelit dinner with her, on a quiet evening?
Why does it weigh less than this: I crave friendship, yes—
but I crave intimacy too, and the pleasure of flesh?


Is it still
Me?
Or have I become some pitiful relic of a man
who must confess his moment has passed?