Madonna,

it's not your face I see
dark nights when I am troubled,
and not your sorrow; 

but the faces of the women I’ve loved
who have shared with me,
their lives
and their love a little.

All are beautifully enthroned in my mind.

I recall the heat of their bodies,
sweaty bodies shared
and the passion of loving
and knowing.

Such love was a beautiful thing, 
I suppose, still is,
and you, Madonna, are the goddess.

But to me, 
your face is no longer clear,
not a face alone; 
a collage of women's faces.
All once were young.

I wonder what they look like now.
Are they still alive?
Do they also remember and wonder?

I ask myself what is real: 
what I touch or what I remember?
What makes it so?

Approaching the edge of existence,
I would like to know.