to pass you by is to long

for you close, lips sweet despite her

claim’s acrid taste. you wave.

your wandering hand runs up my thigh like

vines cling to ancient stone structures.

we make a sick picture, half-past-drunk

on years of tension, crushed

between mouths and confession in the dark.

you look at me as though

i might not run laps around the room

in hopes of catching your eye again.

lucky is the one whose affection you desire;

how can i call myself a lover and fall asleep alone?