The two best things I've ever written are for people I'll never see again.

Lofty, above street, deep-roaring, and stairs, like steep sleet,
We are pulled up to perch, by an angel who smiles silently, and enjoys our choices of drink.
We shift and stretch and find our high seats and over a foundation of putanesca and shot glass shot put
We sip
Then kiss
Then slip, rest, and list.

I love and reason and recount what I want to make you smile
I grin and spin the times of tales in cross-hatch grit
I am white-knuckled. And am pulling for us.

But in your place of knocking and kneading, your flipped curl and thin-shaped sneer
You slide me, hand hidden, eyes heads up, the announcement that you'll cry for me.
You'll mourn my few sugars, my many wines, my wonderful words.
Even beyond the tearing and losing of coats,
Beyond the gasp of goodbye to hearts and homes,
You wish that I would live like the strength of a monk. Inscribing a serif of "oh".

But I am held by loss, or pursued in sweeping winds by change in death and fire.
I am looking to love such small things as you, and your movement--your tied skirts and quotes--and instead, I am shown a curve more subtle and withstanding than language.

The truth, it seems God wants me to know, is here: nothing is, but instead only can be.
Potential, as brief catch and release, can form what we wish were real,
But it will slip away, and reform, and be unrecognizable, right before us.
We are lumbering giants, missing our steps, and missing the points, and any writing, culture, opinion, is false.

So why did I want you, if I stand here to sign that you, and I, and want, are disgusting?
Perhaps because, in such chaos, I need kindness.
I can mourn for me, just fine.