versions of love

there are so many times you look at me
talk to me
think of me
i wonder what it is you see...
am i something to be had?
or is this love-
our own special version
our personal perversion
of the word?
i talk to you incessantly
write to you
think of you constantly.
does that mean you'll always be here?
does it mean i'll never leave?
or do we promise each other the world
while we lie, fake it and deceive?
is it only the emptiness
we love, touch, enter in one another
and desperately try to fill?
somehow, i don't think so
though the world is never clear.
sometimes i think the world
means having you close,
and you holding me dear.
at times i think there is nothing else:
no work, no pressing needs.
and then the outside calls, and we both go
again, again, again
and go home, depressed and lonely;
what is it we have to show?
if we locked the others out
would we grow stagnant inside?
i like to think we'd stay the same:
me loving you, holding you
being had by you,
playing the game.
what else is life but this gentle entertainment,
the randomest kisses,
the lovers' spat?