Masochist

I am helpless in the face
of your full sorrow.
Your brimming eyes suggest
a high-hearted, overflowing pain
that men like me
neglect to feel.

It is a science and an art
the pulling of your tiny fingers
on the stringy tendons 
of my heart.

Never regretted for a moment
-no I cannot forget it for a moment-
how I wished for the sacred wind
to come and drown out
each of your labored breaths.

But under the sun nothing is new:
life is such 
-and will always be-
a never ending series of pains.
Your lightest touch and my roughest 
pleasure
are new and old mates.