Last night was terrible. I spilled
The coffee all over your favorite shirt
And you were having an asthmatic attack.
We went out last night to dance
And we wanted a few more libations
Than what the body could handle —
But we’re young. This is the beginning
Of passion a medium once told us.
Outside the snow barely stared to fall.
You began a fresh batch of medium roast.
It was August. The air was ripe.
I kissed you more often than not.
I don’t know very much about love
Is what you said while we were both naked.
There’s little of the world we know about
I thought to say. But kept quiet. We kissed.
It’s Summer again and your body is beautiful.
We both saw a snake swivel along the grass,
And someone thought this was an omen.
We kissed and kissed and I believed in it.
These are the necessities in life: believing
In the things out of the reach. The acacia tree
Is in the desert but I can see the yellow
With my eyes closed. I can see the bark
Of the spine, erect and godly. We’re kissing
Again. So many kisses, so many beliefs
Running along the ground. Last night, again,
Was terrible. With what little we have left,
I stoked the skin,
saw the goose-bump flesh,
We pissed in a cup
And gave it to the wind.
Without you inside my body.
A little more. A little
To the left. Kiss my lips.
The bitter tongue is all
That we have left
After the loneliness.
The tongue and pear tree;
The skin and burnt blanket. Isn’t love
Reckless like this;
Don’t you give it to the wind.
Touches of the body;
Cities rising from earth.
I saw you across the bar.
We had a beer or two.
Love is such an industry you told me
Nibbling the left-side of my neck
Without any harm. Attractive, I thought,
Not your obviously beautiful face, but
How much we were at the end of love
While the hydrangeas began their bloom.
The air is more valuable because we existed.
That is what I wanted you to know
Before you left. It happened
While we kissed atop the steps
Of a high-rise. I haven’t known a passion
Quite this tall until it was absent
From the lips; the hands.
It’s such an industry being this ripped open
I suppose is what you meant.
Our clothes were off. We kissed
On the grass; along a building; on cement.
There was no harm in our leaving.
Only passion, love, at the end of its season.
is a queer writer in Los Angeles, CA. His work has appeared or will appear, in Carve Magazine, Rhino Poetry, Cathexis Northwest Press, 14 Poems, Redivider Journal, Maudlin House, and others.