Coupling

to my Valentine . . . 

With every other man,

the damage comes at entry:
serrated knife blade carving me in hemispheres,
good half, bad half, toss the unacceptable
the way one slices a blue-furred softness
from a peach,
then devours the sweet remainder,
sucking on the pit to savor each luscious drop.

But you, my love,
penetrate without injury,
fit me like a joint within its proper socket,
suffuse me like magma in the crevices of earth.
With you inside, my severed halves are unified,
and only when you exit,
     do you wound me.