I kept you, by hours.
But you kept
saying Yes.
Our lips touched
where mine otherwise slept.
The Irish exit came
long after cumming,
and now I’m humming
The Song of Waiting.
Wasn’t there really a goodbye,
where the silence contrasts your light,
resistant to emerge
from the shadows?
I didn’t mean to point us to an Irish lunch,
but the continuance of abandonment
fits.
If we aren’t ambiguously yellow,
well, then, we are busily green.
Green with fling,
green with growing,
green with spring,
green with knowing.
I do have some Irish in me
(did you see the red,
in my crotch and on my head?)
and it plays with the open-ended fires of fate.
But are we ever-departing
into cold, empty nights,
eyeing blank white squares on the calendar,
unpenned, with no new Hello?
Those lipless hours
have turned into weeks,
weak for lunch,
verdantly coveting,
golden from lust, still glowing,
though your heart never speaks.