Sponge

Passionless,
you soak passion from me
like a sponge.
Squeezed dry.

This black mood that inhabits you
inhibits you
and steals away your heart,
your joy of life,
your reason to be.
Leaving a pain-full body.
Spiritless.

Yet still you say your love is strong
and deeper than it ever was.
But today it seems too deep to feel.
And I wonder:
is affection born of habit enough?
Or will love desert us both in time,
slipping through the door
which fleeing passion left ajar?

And yet
your dutiful lips and fingertips
still awaken me.
My passion pours forth, surprising me,
and once again the sponge is heavy,
dripping tears of release
and despair.