first draft

you enter me like a storm,
rapture for the long bereft,
the barren and blocked,
glance and touch stirring
an equal cyclone in me.
I leave you in a ball
on the floor
by the bedside table,
used and then discarded.
traded for something
less tumultuous,
a more considerate lover,
a verb that caresses
its noun properly,
tenderly.
every one that follows
is less like you,
and I compare them all
because I remember you—
the way you came—
and I just might
want you back.