An Asexual Love Poem
beloved, your finger
traces my shoulders draws me out of slumber brushed from my eyes.
eyes meet - like in the songs - flashbulb memories of when radios blare and your gentle hands
wrap my ears to filter noise.
inside joke: you are whispered keats in a library basement - asexual understanding of college student sex in the library basement.
fucking - they were fucking. we make love when your whispered - “i love you” finds my feet ready to kiss
the edge of the hangman’s stool.
making love is gentle hands,
tears wiped from eyes long before body locks opened for you - you, secret
keeper of so much more long, long before.
keats is but a silly memory, like car talks of eowyn and her faramir, turned hands, find hands, turning faces,
close; so close, we breathe each other’s air -
laughter is love. both full of breath and, somehow, breathless. love, i learned,
reminds you that you are not the fucking giving
tree, yet knows,
when your apples are all eaten,
when your branches made a home,
when your trunk becomes a sailing ship
to take the young boy home,
long classroom hours have taken everything -
rasping alto rising - crackling like a warped dusty record, over use leaves my voice just a shadow of a glorious self -
breathless, you say, like laughter.
making love - is reading love’s favorite book - husband, the boy (affectionate) - you sit. eyes pensive, observing your animal mage, beloved of puppies. reminiscent of protagonists in this children’s story -
townsfolk called her crazy too, her philosopher soothed the wounds left from biting human words you know, always know, why i ask, i ask:
“what is love, then, if not a rescue, salvation, from madness?”
P.S. Shuller is an autstic, queer, asexual poet usually in that order. Shuller and her awesome husband, Luke, who both met at poetry slam, have been married for one year as of Halloween 2021. They live with their puppy Pinky who, much like his name sake, has but one brain cell.