not in a century, but twelve days hence?
Would I go to inordinate expense
to travel round the world to see each friend
you in particular, to kiss goodbye?
Climb pyramids, go to the Taj Mahal
with you and swoon together, have Stendhal
syndrome in every city? When we die
the world ends, quietly with little fuss.
I know that's going to happen, and I write
love poems through migraines late into the night
hoping the things I write are glorious
and touch your heart to love. Missing your lips
though, one time more, would be Apocalypse.