The Contradiction

At times you ding and make me salivate like you’re the bell and I am Pavlov’s pet drooling on your boot. Your sigh’s wordless weight like Humbert’s hand on Nabokov’s nymphet, pinching Dolly’s resentful thigh. You are darker than the matter too clever for telescopes. Your eyes are the dying star, the vortex pulling doomed light to its core. Yet your lips’ sharp edges reduce to blunts when their steel is softened by annealing in my fire-kiss. Satan was divine once--- it’s true. I Fall for you: wing-shorn, reeling. I love it all: your goodness, to excess. Bad, no less. (Bad is more fun to undress.)