A Swift Kick in the Ass Would Be Far Less Painful

This was long-awaited,
Anticipated by the both of us.
Still.
It does not mute the
persistent din
of pain.
I love you.
I love you I love you I love you I cannot say it any more nor try to enhance its meaning.
These three words are active,
create motion,
in my head.
Like three rapiers being juggled
by one untrained in the skill.
With sweat-ridden palms,
Each toss results in a
fresh
piercing
agonizing
slice across tender flesh.
Still,
The sport continues.
Oh, were I that clumsy apprentice!
To feel the harsh tear of the blade against my skin
Would match my inner injury.