Mix Tape

a love poem for Diane

---

We know
that mix tapes are sex—

the hoping for
and honoring of—

the sated
and never-enough—

the fully-present
and too-damn-stressed—

the body that stayed
and the mind that left—

the marital bed
and the hotel room—

the didn't-go-well
and sonic boom—

the every consonant 
and every vowel—

the grunt, gasp,
whisper, and howl—

the please, please
and yes, yes—

the longtime answer
and the wild guess—

the dexterity
and the almost-there—

the halfway-dressed
and completely bare—

the wrists, hands,
and fingers—

the velocity 
and the linger—

the trust
and the lust—

the hips
and the tongue—

the overwhelming 
and just-okay—

the dedication 
and the play—

the modest
and the grandstand—

the impulsive
and the planned—

the grey hair
and growing old—

the growing old
and penultimate kiss—

the penultimate kiss
and one last breath.

Mix tapes are what-now.
Mix tapes are what-next.

Mix tapes end.
Mix tapes start.

Mix tapes are
until-death-do-us-part.