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

the understanding

that this is

how honest lovers

must live, act?