He died young, an adolescent, never knowing
intimacy, joyous rapture entwined in another man’s
arms, pounding, thrusting hardness, bodies to
ecstatic climax, for kisses on waking, caress
for sleep, I love you at dawn, I love you at
He never knew that love, nor any other, he died
young, died without intimacy, love shared by
two young men, though they mourned him
made memory over him, in time, memory faded.
The old man lives through the smiles of younger
men, watches as they dance and glide across
the rugged terrain of intimate love, sexual prowess,
he silently weeps, le lacrime degli angeli,
his longiing past tense, his time spent, asking
was that intimacy those thounsand gruntin acts,
clining kisses, arms and thighs banging together
without an i love you, parting, was that intimacy
or a hope still renewed daily that though gone,
love will find him, lost in deep reverie, love
will find him?
The boy died young, the old man weeps for a joy
that boy will have never know, with teary eyes
misting in the fading night, wonders did he either?