Of pleasure, and pain

I try hard
to capture
pleasure
in words
but,

unlike pain
which covets words,
unfailingly,
undresses them
stark as herself,
bathes them in
metaphors,
to cleanse them
of worldly vises,
the lingering smells
of trite meanings,
scents them
with the sweat
of passionate
love making,
and dresses them
in post-orgasmic
mourning
to go out
and speak for her,
show off
the bruises,
and bites
proudly

pleasure,
on the other hand
is like a shy-lover
always gathering
courage
to approach,
losing the race
to pain’s charisma
until, one day
roll of dice
favors it with
a chance encounter,
and like a gentleman
he turns it into a ritual
of respect, turned
into adulation,
even worship,
that brings in the veil
eluding touch

words treat
the whole affair
like a casual fling
amusing,
and amused
they walk away
with their muse
as she returns
with a dazzling display
of vulnerability
of bare need
of alluring greed

using each other
for their own ends
they walk off
together
fighting
and reuniting
endlessly

pleasure
needing no one
to complete itself
moves on
to better things