We are not just bonded
By the commonality of our genes

Or the connections of our
Food webs, or the ecologies we share,

We are too, practitioners of a stock
Called the human touch,

That is telekinetic, it moves
Mountains, and allows glaciers to move,

That too a form of global warming,
That too, a form of evolution.

We are events of reproductive isolation, lovers,
In a world of our own, the anthers

And the stigma and styles, two share, and still
We cannot be just on our own,

We are just as much, mushy, gooey,
As a sentimental chick-flick,

We hold our arms as far as we can,
To see who will come to us,

To braid, to bond, the covalency,
Of our shared electrons, the orbits,

We are just proof, that genes
Have a place and so do what is absolved of genes.

How we no longer hold arms in public,
Conscious of a world, theorizing scandals,

We forget how a gay old time, we
Share in friendship, unpolluted by

The need to be preening, like
Birds of a feather. How it all makes

Sense, when we introspect; the fillers
Of a chamber, matters, just like

The reciprocals of a body. Love is
Not just a physical syndrome,

It is too, a ritual of sharing stories
Anecdotes, dreams and the many times we fall apart.

We make bridges like a group of ants, to
Cross gaps in space, to carry crumbs,

We don’t care whether we are black, or brown
Or red, we lift ourselves like pyramids,

We are only, the palms we prostitute,
And the shoulders we fornicate,

And the fond memories, to which,
A heart, in sheer solitude, masturbates,

The many contenders, Plato’s disciples,
To a different kind of affection.

Nostalgia is remembering the times, we stood,
Mouths farther from touching distances,

Sharing conversations, oral lore,
That too a beautiful orgy.

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