Oh,
I was so blind
when I asked-

"Is there anything
left in that glass?"

"No dear,"
mumbling...
"just tears."

To reproduce is
one of a mammal's
four basic drives.

Established as
a definition of life.

Sex has "evolved"
into something
much more complicated
than simple lust.

It encompasses,
elicits,
and convolutes
fornication.

Now,
passion is
inexorably intertwined
with love,
touch,
tenderness,
"feelings."

Love's course
defies logical
analysis.

He's mine.
Really?

She's mine.
You don't say.

You only own someone
when you remember
what you were.

What you should be.
What you must be.

Warmth.
Touch.
Tenderness.
Tears.

Only for
a few precious seconds
does the intimacy of love
allow a melding
of the one complete soul
torn apart,
so long ago.

All the rest
remains
courtship.

Tentative,
the call of rapture.

The first time is...
every time.

A chance
for eternal spring.

Drink
the teardrops,

her glass
now brimming
with love's requite.

Oh my,
will the night
hold my quill's...
aspirations?