nothing is truly wrong

and the moon is a cold light
and that’s why sex is still magic, still coddling us
in a cotton candy cobweb sense
of childish joy
a strange game of hopscotch where
you end up with your arms around your knees
because there’s nothing truly wrong there

and it shall come to pass that we shall have a hundred
soups together - and yet, I’ll find myself glued to your side
soot freckles on my glowing cheeks, like a novice firebender
for the real magic won’t waste away with the sparks
but linger in the warmth of intimacy -
the embers you may rake and stare into, up close
a synth you could play long into the night while stoned
with half-blind filter sweeps across an endless, sequenced song
without the slightest fear you’re doing something wrong

guilty when finding I would sometimes miss
feeling like a blackgaze cover, a camera slipping
from one’s hands, film unravelling, shutter snapping in its fall
longing for this liam album -
its fluorescent and emaciated poplar trees
the hypersensitivity one finds in isolation and the pain
that rose while listening from my lacerated muscles
back when the linden trees bloomed - but I could not leave my bed
and yet I’d smell their scent diffusing through the ceiling
and feel their pollen roasting on the roof tiles

the selfish, severed, amputated senses and their dulling stubs
when you’ve been locked up for so long
so very long that you begin to fell the warmth
of things you cannot touch
and even now, through the reverberated summer rot
I can make out how cold these poles must feel
vibrating and supporting power lines beyond horizons
the sines and waves a single falling birch leaf stirred
upon the surface of a pond that’s nearly dried

and I recall
this is what lonely people feel
time and again, yearning to fall in love

the warmth of people who they cannot touch
(and this is why the moon is a cold light)