let sinful pleasures wash my soul
with each and every blissful passing
whither not upon my joy.
the heart within me wretched
as always was, as a boy,
cracked thin as parting friends of orphaned smiles.
my kisses now lack passion
but gain all the more in contemplation
of that which I love, and choose to keep
when weighed against that certain madness of former days.
in all ways we taste more sweet
when looking back, from that place unclimbed.
happy to be here.
from the height we did not ascend
but found ourself lifted
by being, and refusing not to be.
slave or free
licenced or in liberty
is all the same to you and I.
yes we can define and correlate
seek the things that divide and place our words into mouths
that never knew our name.
but eggshells are for breaking.
and fragile love, which hangs
untitled for our taking
will turn its back more sharply than the counting pen can note.
if it is sin to love the things we love
then let all sin be pleasant and not the sordid lie of taking.
the saddest word is goodbye.
whether on the fork
or in the hurried walk of morning
or the dropping dreg of wine scraped against the glass.
not for what has passed.
but what is again tried in finding, when we might accept
the touch of a hand upon our hip
sliding in beside in simple act of fellowship.
money buys nothing more than time.