Tension by thy breath,
tight skin over high bones.
I lay here holding,
frantic wet, all bundles
gathering the lies and concealing
one of my many love notes.

That boy will be my death
when he won't
ever reveal heart,
because it does not exist.
Our moist kisses are long,
and invisible.

Chip on his shoulder's facet,
big as The cross,
and he is handsome still.
I watch him from my bay window,
the bastard,
fire from my heart to below.
I seem to overthink
even the most obvious of tension.
He loves me.

He has long since,
since the war,
been the adoration of my affect;
but he remains blind,
and I remain a blade kept within its sheath.

Silent he slipped away
to rid his guilt?
to loosen my shame.
It seems to have done neither,
the supple skin of his cheeks sunken,
my eyes glossed red.
You beautiful boy, you idiotic
maochist,
all of our shame is to blame on you
And he is beautiful still.