For the most part,
quiet surrounds us:
there’s the stream,
the occasional creak
of the wooden bridge,
the rustle of pages,
but we are still,
& the world is wonderous

There’s a time & a place
for everything:
every bruise
every cut
every kiss—-
sometimes brief
sometimes eternal
& sometimes it’s okay either way

I have never been bereft of desire,
but for a moment,
it would be okay either way:
ending in searing pain
(the course I’m most familiar with, even with you),
although I’d love this to last forever
& you say,
“likewise”