I cannot hold the night without the day
becoming dream. Each touch becoming less
of you and more a memory. What press
of flesh imprints itself on primal clay
without losing a shard of essence – stray
immortal chance beyond mechanic mess
of tongue – a soundless, boundless emptiness
that once become is never told to stay.
Let go of then and open to a when
we next encounter now together. Do
not mourn your past regret with torso numb
and expectation proving fools of men,
when I will welcome you as neither you
as you once were nor you as yet to come.