Look buddy, I’ve been burned and so
I’d rather we would take it slow.
I’ve tried, myself, to skip ahead,
push through the hesitation, dread,
and lingering ghosts of other times.
(I mustn’t let you serve for crimes
of other men who came before.
I’ve work to do I can’t ignore.)
I’m asking for some room to breathe.
Not decades, just a small reprieve
from rocket-fueled, vibrating want.
I’m not immune, don’t mean to taunt
or make as if you’re all alone
in this— but doesn’t being known
completely have its own appeal?
Or does that inspire you to feel
exposed, in which case I suggest
your own regime of self-inquest.
And though I feel that pull to bed,
I tell you 40 isn’t dead.
I know we haven’t all the world
and time; I’d have this come unfurled
without collecting yet more scars.
I have enough, I’ve fought my wars.
I want for my sharp edges not
to cut you if we start a hot
and slower, lasting, steady burn.
Hold fast and you may find you earn
your way to more than some entrée
to warm wet spaces. I dare say
I see in you potential for
an altogether stranger shore
where, years on, we may come to rest.
The epitaph: “I loved him best.
A friend and foil, challenger,
together more than what we were
Now therefore I propose,
we talk again, this time in prose,
to clarify what we each see
as our coupling’s trajectory.
Try as I might, I have no luck
in aiming for some simple fuck.
(But really if I were the kind
You’d be the first to come to mind)
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