Damp nights these days.
Somber, set in their ways.
Milking from them I get little.
Some movies, a “night cap”
Men to talk to for an hour, or two.
Is this all we are here to do? Wait?
Lesson learned; I will stop counting,
but you’ve taken my booze, taken my
music; I’m only a man after all. One
who gripes as much as he swoons.
There’s far too much talk: of birds, roses,
the trees, winds, magic and so forth.
A nice woman once traced her face
with jokes of mine, a kiss lit by the spark
of pure connection. And words used to
mean something; to me, in general.
See, we bundle up shoes, gather maps,
get lost in translation, and forget all we
ultimately must do is stare deeply at the
rift before us. A thin white wire splits a
coin into two halves: that of longing and love;
we spend most days toggling between
what is so deeply intertwined. I’m sitting
here now, in my childhood room, at my
childhood desk, while home for the weekend.
Indebted to a boy who has lost many nights
here, and still, like good wine, I choose
to stare at him.
Photo by Patrick Schneider on Unsplash
