What if the clocks were ticking to world’s end
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.


About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
This entry was posted in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s