Nauseous; Infectious—Why were we here
two nights ago, all dressed down to our
skintight lunacies? True love really never dies
is a sick thought that lies
on a bed of gravel, under a sheet
of sleet, traveled over by a sled
we shared, taking turns pulling it
with our clenched teeth.
We’re suffering for it, that wonderful
grueling nighttime adventure. Not exactly
“romantic” in the sense of the adjective
I’d grown up knowing and loving, but still—
We were one, alone, cold, needing each other.
Now we’re ill, together, in the same naughty spot
making each other sicker. The thought of this
is driving, depriving, making us lazy.
If we were to simply stand here
in our bare feet, would we contract
that this is
how honest lovers
must live, act?