I am but a broken boy, so will you lay here,
A few minutes longer, a few days, the summer,
You can leave my side eventually, as all things,
Eventually must recede into the nothing like death.
I’ll think nothing of it, I’ll just stay here staring,
At the bronze ceiling, in sorrowful yellow light,
You can be on your way through the traffic then,
With only your body painted on the sheets I soak in.
If I am fragile, like a twig made of glass,
Why not, then just twist me, smash me,
Into the ground and then laugh cruelly;
Because it is my fate to be broken eventually.
Then I shall tell my heart, be still, be cool,
It is not in your interest to make of me demands,
For promises I cannot keep, yet you know if I do,
I am only deceiving you, but ask me yet somehow.
The last three sultry hours of the afternoon spent,
Were least of all animate for my eyes, being staid
They were dead set on that bronze, looking at all
The little pieces of nothing that fell into focus.
Despite the heat, within and without there was,
A particular sort of longing, a pining from my gut,
Insulated by this flesh, yearned to reach out, to pull
You out of your own; to desecrate it and wear it proud.
Numb afterwards, floating in the stench of many cigarettes,
My chest would finally stop fuming and heaving ; grow cold
And suddenly be tired and small, only asking for the wanton
Consummation of binary touch turned golden, turned soft.
Passively I would expect to be wrapped up, enveloped solid
Into a fluid embrace layered with the sorrowful sunlight with
The din of the traffic, the atmosphere of breath and tobacco,
Its core a throbbing mass of detached affection sniffling incessantly.
Then you would turn and you would leave, dragging it all with you
Withdrawing pulled back by invisible strings of realization concomitant
Of lust, receding further and further so that with each step my longing grows
Until your body is now downstairs pulling into a cab, dragging my heart behind it.