New poem thing

Youth

We overdreamed the dream of youth:
running without hesitation,
an orgasm for every rose petal,
the necessity of white teeth.

Then the trick stops,
the outline of the projector
becomes visible for the first time.

And I hope you are ready to die
without mourning each second
that guides you like a sure procession
to what must happen next.

New Draft

Contact Comfort

His steady breathing eases
you into the night as a signal
of his departure.
No longer illuminated by sun or bedside lamp
the space feels like a territory secret.
Not a prize but bestowed by
some cycle of nature or
fundamental limit of stamina.

The late night rain hits rooftop
louder splash later pooling on the ground
does not wake up you but tells you a secret;
you realize what you’ve been missing:
sighs hidden in heavy breathing,
condemnation staring ahead.
Always staring ahead.
This is fucking romance.