I feel warm when I’m with you.
Not passion, not lust…
but comfort…
like the embrace
of an electric blanket
in a wood-warmed house in winter.
Yes, electricity
is what you inpsire in me,
in the modern sense.
You make my words work against me,
like a metropolis
choked by rolling blackouts
that abruptly flares to life
with the restoration of power,
at once necessary and dangerous.
She is your outlet,
your current of purpose.
And I…
I cannot know
how you measure my worth,
the price of my service.
If there were a meter
I could read bi-weekly
to gauge my use to you,
it would be wired to my heart
and not my intellect.

01/16/2004

Posted on 01/17/2004
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