I am now often caught awake

while you sleep uncontrollably

and achingly silent. Your soft

dove-moans and the cool touch

of skin swimming through our

night linens pull and tug at my

lost hunger. It is not often

now that

in my solitude

I sit quietly or

dance alone in the kitchen,

barefoot and horny with food

or liquor or paper in my hand.

I never have to be alone ever

again and because of this I am

now content to waste part of it

asleep, but partnered. Thus aches

the prayer of the Moon. It can only

dream of what it would be like

to bed with the Sun.

Poor poor old glowing boy.