This girl doesn't love me
anymore than I love myself.
I bet she can't even remember my name.
I'd be surprised if she was
even interested in learning it.
She just wants to spend the night
examining my foreskin,
or turning me in circles,
trying to find the seam
where God sewed me up.

Somewhere beyond this day,
there are lovers next to white beaches,
about to walk barefoot up
steps made of wood or stone
to feast on sun and naked flesh.

I smile for them
and wish them luck,
because not very long ago
I also climbed steps
of wood and stone.