I can hardly wait to waste myself in someone else
to lean into her, feel her breasts upon my chest,
her breath upon my cheek,
her arms around my back,
her aching
upon mine.
But I know that this is vision,
this is phantom this is frail,
it has never been so innocent
as lust and thrust and throw.
It will be talking, and socks,
and turning on the light,
and condoms, and shitting,
and bad breath, and silence,
and the loneliness that always falls upon the climax and the sleeping head.

Tomorrow,
as the lovers go about their tragic act,
all my love is dead.