And it turns out that’s unforgivable
Because I’m now writing lines to you in my head
Lying in the dark in my bed
It doesn’t matter that I sent you other words
Surreptitious in the social stream
Oscar Wilde’s hand soft on Walt Whitman’s knee
Let us be to each other thou and thee…
No, not enough. I want for us to be a grand literary relationship,
an epistolary love affair in grand style
Sighed over by future teenagers
Who wish they were us and have no idea
Of the torments that lie between triumphs
So: almost midnight, but not quite.
I didn’t miss a day.
