Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art...*
Perhaps not so much.
It would be better to burn, yes;
     to witness the trembling of a thousand suns,
to thumb each tremor of the human heart.
Surely it would be better to burn;
     but to fade, to die with bright sensation,
to linger in the memory of some ancient constellation.

I'm sorry.
You can't fall in love temporarily.
Even if it's just a fleeting moment
     across the street or between supermarket aisles.
Moments are forever, now.
What I say now will be true, always.
This feeling now will be true, always.
I'm sorry.

The Amstel. Christ.
Kilner jars full of fireflies
     on redbrick windowsills.
Hormone therapy. Jesus.
Angel boys from Europe
     trailing around behind me wondering -
and not caring - what the hell is in my pants.
Cold morning breezes
     on scarred chest tissue and needle puncture marks.
Rows and rows of bicycles
     and a fluttering pink scarf in the wind.
Roaring screams and sexless smiles
     cold split knuckles and nonchalant breath.

Do not ask me to be patient.
Do not ask me to lay suspended
     in apathy until the world turns for me.
Until pages turn themselves.
Until my lungs turn cancerous before I'm done hurting them.
Do not ask me to be faithful.
Do not ask me to stare into your eyes
     in love and hold onto them forever.
Do not ask me to be pure.
Do not ask me to get drunk
     only on communion wine and bow to
a God that doesn't need the minister I'm *******.

let's ***** our romance
     from broken cathedral windows.
I'll kiss your feet
     as they bleed from the shards of cherry wine bottles.
let's carve out our stomachs
     and eat them with coffee and the morning chorus.
I'll watch you make a mess of prostitutes
     so that pink and white clouds at sunrise mean nothing else to me.
let's go and sit by the sea
     or the Seine, I don't mind,
let's drown on parched cobblestone streets.

cracked porcelain cups, spilt forgotten tea,
     stale uneaten biscuits and the freckles of crumbs
on a matching hand-painted plate.

stupid living boys
     and their hummingbird hearts.
stupid dead boys
     and their lingering stares.
supermarket polaroids,
     cold apartment poetry,
faded glassy eyes,
     ***** fingernails.