glistening dew(s and don'ts)
bring light to this fiasco
that, for how many months now?, you and i act out
on grass the shape of which is not the same for our passage
(our imprints on the earth, on each other)
it was inevitable that we should reach this night

the every action and spoken word culminating with no regard for will
(free or otherwise - compelled by love)

and by the light of the streetlight at the edge of our world
(that faint reminder of curfews broken and deadlines passed
in attempts to achieve what eludes the best and brightest
(so why should we presume to strive?)
and what, in truth, we each discarded to rendezvous secretly in the dark of day
or, as in this case, the light of night)
we press together, whispering fevered delusions of love
of life
of . . .
nothing.

and at the slightest sound (an odd twitch of sleep
the source of which seeks naught but sustenance
by way of cheeks puffed (like my chest, your pride
at the thought of the other)
and whose current state is uncertain in the half-light which,
everspreading, sillouettes our forms in prose against the bark of the tree,
an accusation),
we jump to our feet and, hearts hammering, vow to head home.

but the next moment sees not two shapes, but one once more
(the shadows show what we would have the truth be - one form
one mind
one . . .
lie)

and, stricken by the time of day (we went not home that night)
we bid tearful adieu and, in nothing more than lieu of life,
seek bitter paths to lives forsaken, forgotten (forgone
so might as well not even try)

and as the stars spiral slowly across the sky,
outshined by brilliance that comes and goes,
(the world, our love)
the patterns never change, and neither do we
and as time goes by, we stagnate, revive (weaker each time)
till at last we die.