with just pinkies intertwined we lay down side by side
under summer stars, in a cemetery, to watch the world swirl
far away from the bare touch of our share.
life takes to life—and now look what i’ve found.

i think: if the stars could fall,
they’d fall as i do into love:
not out of the sky, but into each other.
but it is the night that falls and not the stars.

darkness into darkness gathers
across the scape of crypted land
as I snuggle into the warmth that you provide
and likewise you unto the man of me.

our closing moments suddenly seize eternity by the balls—
oh my god, no, that was your  hand!
ha ha ha what are you doing, dear?
don’t stop…don’t stop…don’t stop…

the cemetery surges:
while spirits rise,
the frenzied scent of heated love decants
across the shaken firm of earth.

yet for all the eruptions of rapt emotions,
our pinkies remain entangled
like the strands of ivy clinging to the embedded tombstones
over which we roll, and roll, and roll…

it’s then that I realize
that we’ll never, never again be apart—
for even death as a voyeur unearths upon our thrill
and these damned ghosts are already clamoring for an encore.

and so like good actors upon a stage, we oblige and bow
once again in perpetual animalistic unison,
with the trail of stars overhead too much confused
yet our pinkies still, and now forever, entwined.