Different ballgame

This is nice; I love this.

But just remind me why something so nice,

which I love so much, would be so wrong

with anyone but you?

 

Tennis is nice; I love tennis.

You don’t, though you enjoy a game from time to time.

So I play tennis – which I love – with Andy,

Paul, and even Sue. And you don’t mind.

 

I think I know what you would say.

I think you’d point to skin.

Yours on mine, mine on yours, so many years.

Entangled epidermises,

mingled molecules,

the way that bits of each of us have

rubbed off on the other, day after day.

That doesn’t happen on the tennis court, you’d say.

 

You’re right, of course.

But think of all the similarities:

the breathlessness; the sweat; the way

that time stands still; the moments of pure ecstasy

(that running backhand down the line the other day).

 

OK, you win.

I swear that I will never do

anything nice involving skin

with anyone but you.