when you've made love

don't look to me
to make love to you,
to pander to your every whim,
to stroke you where
you like to be stroked,
to tell you how beautiful you look
with your curls and curves,
with your sweaty sinews,
and your hair in the right places;
don't tell me you want me
because you love me,
because you love to fill,
because you love to fuel,
because you love those walls
exploding into themselves,
because you love the keenness
of the blade that cuts
and bleeds at will
for its own masked love;
don't tell me you want me
because,
come to me
when you're undone,
when you've loved
every ache and scar on your skin,
when you have felt in your bones
what it means to simply love
for nothing, for no one,
for no earthly purpose,
or divine longing,
come,
when you've made love
to yourself
over and over again,
when you can speak about it
with no covers of shame to hide in,
and then let's make love together,
you and me,
under the light of night or day,
right here
under the gaze of the world,
when there's nothing left to speak about,
when there's nothing to give or take,
when there's nothing left to prove or flaunt,
except the love of our own skins
inflamed and glistening
under the moon and stars.