Lie to me that you’re sun-crazy, that

the cross wife wagged your mouth,

and you take it all back, with hydration.

The sun had you scared of your shadow

and mine, eating us feet first

before you plucked up the nerve

for a kiss. I resent your cowardice. 

And mine. 

---

I can see us being old friends,

faces between yellowed pages

of an album you’ll peruse only

when drunk, balding, broke;

or being lovers until one of us plays 

wet-nurse to a myth on oxygen.

---

Either way, we ache. 

Either way, we fade.

Either way, this potential wastes

in blushing lies and shower thoughts,

in pangs, then smiles, then 

the waste where forgotten things whine for food.

---

Might you, as the sun goes, pick our fate?

Or shall we go on politely,

as our skins cool and the night sprays its stars?