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What is a Valentine, Valentine?

by Esther Frances 

Posted: 20 April 2006
Word Count: 537
Summary: The dichotomy of what love is or is not......the irony of the valentine....

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I have no inclination
my Valentine
to spell out your name
with stems of roses
No God forsaken time
to criss and cross
or have your thorns
bleed me dry

I am reluctant
to the extreme
to engage my heart
in beams of hope
that would likely die
in seething, burning embers
And I have small expectation
of any serial bloodletting
or mutual cloying

I have no poignant wish
to steal away
your entwining heart
or transport you
to a sacred place
and bury our love there
in some forsaken spot

I want not
to induce in you a feeling
that devoid of me
you would be lost
Indeed so unearthed
that your looseness of connection
with the real world
would miserly unwind

I could take no joy
in your tugging and prying
Your indulgence
Your anticipation
that only I would
serve the longing
that burns indignant
in your awakened groin

And were you to tryingly
beg my white thighs
to close you down
pin and unfold you
into the essence of me
What then would be my purpose?
For that would only mean
that you were weakened
by attainable desire for me
That you would rather
die, dogged face with me
than return to the mundane
part of life that is you

I simply couldn’t have you
beckon my latent desire
Not handle well the chalice
at my ego alter
Then I would be unable
to disrobe you
without having you wash me
in your grateful tears

What sort of Valentine
would you be for me
If you, unthinking
could not pander
to your everyday tasks
If thoughts of me
dropped like vinyl 45s
into some forlorn jukebox

How could you serve
your life purpose
if your heart and mind
are filled with only thoughts
of me, of mine
I could not tolerate
your undivided love
and curious attention to detail
Is this what a Valentine REALLY is, Valentine?

But apologies for I digress
for my real fear is that…….

I could not accommodate you
between my burning thighs
if with every longing thrust
you reminded me
of my human condition
of my desire
If with every kiss
you were to disarm me
unlock my protective armour
Pull me from my pedestal
downwards, sinking
If with every sweet word
you could make me believe
there really was such a thing
As true love
As a blank page
As a new start

I could not bear
to be enfolded
in your solid arms
encircling my defences
Because, like Lara the Tomb Raider
I would have to drop
my loaded machine guns
and lose my virtual upper hand
I would fall
defenceless to the floor
begging for the wide sweeping strokes
of your soft and lending hands
your accommodating fingers

I would be forced
to give you permission
to turn me every concocted way
that you so desired
So that you could sculpture me
into your pliable bed
with hidden dreams
and shared visions
And I would cry and beg
for you to let me bathe you
Attend your every depraved wish
Let you be my beast
and me the mistress of that beast
which begs the question
What kind of Valentine would that make me, Valentine?

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