Isn't True Love Wonderful?

Ecobutch from Cornish just made me her favorite,
which is more than I can say of Kitchenslut100
or 101. Ecoslut might be the one
for me, and because of the wonders
of wondering, I can click
on pixels of my affection all
night and see their private
peccadilloes rise beneath my touch.
One likes fisting, another vanilla
ice cream licked from her hair.
Where do people come
from, where do they get
fetishes for tomboys in stilettos?
I don’t know what I like until I’ve seen it
on a pillow 300 days in a row. It’s ok
to wash the pillowcase as long as it spins
in counterintuitive ways—we all have
idiosyncrasies, if not mates. My
notmates are many, and we share
so much: birth month, love for loose-
fitting modifiers, close-ups long
on soft focus. Most employ
the selfie, which shouts how
alone they are, unless you count
vitamin supplements and hair gels
on bathroom counters. Context
matters, and in a finite you-
and-me verse, I need to hurry
and admit I love you and how
does anyone rappel out
of herself into another without grave
risks? You have a habit of tilting
your brain back, with a question.
You have a body with windows
and doors and once you left
the lights on in there, the way
people in Amsterdam in tall, slender
houses on sleepy canals will, without
draperies, a kind of invitation, a way
of saying I have nothing
to hide. I appreciate now how
you take the long way from A
to A, how you believe Z or hyacinths
or maps to crumbled places may
figure into it. I’m trying to articulate
my lack of attraction to people
trying to do things. Would you like
to love me without trying? That’s
an abstract proposition that ought
to come with an airline ticket
and an overhead compartment.
I want to go away with you so we
can come home together, so we can stand
at passport control and have the man
in the glass booth glance from our papers
to the clock on the wall, back to us, and ask,
as the maître d’ once did to my first sweetheart
and me at The Lark Supper Club
outside of Iowa City in 1985: Isn’t
true love wonderful? It is, and after
the man waves us on toward the carousel,
after we claim our suitcases and the beagle
named Rex trained to sniff out
heroin and pears and illicit French
cheeses makes a beeline
for me, unbidden, I’ll unzip
myself, letting all my
light, for anyone in this
dark world to trip over.