No Intentions

Burnt in the wake of restless dreams-
i reach towards the gaping abyss that is
queer love: we yearn for some pearl-laden
maiden to entrance and sing by rivers dawning
on a world gilding itself on hopes eternal. but
we were broken, so i
lay in beds soiled by fucking and disuse at daybreak:
“I have to catch the BART.”
Riding home where the morning sun meets scratched glass-
i can feel the shape of her mouth on mine-
its tenderness, the ripe spots of hurts like bruises incurred
by metonymies of love. i know the dark and hurt lovers, only seeking
moments of strange pleasure, reputable strangers who
half-pretend at stability, with self-ironic twists,
It takes practice to be able to do that.
and in the entropic waves of ending that characterize these
intercourses unprofound, i wonder if in the dimly-lit worlds of
shoddy apartment walls and play candles if
they see me as i see them, and if we are just engaged in a masturbatory
prolonging of yearning, of failing at that purity of that great storied
miracle that
is Queer Love. settling for fun, egged on by fat, mundane ecstasies and
that asymptote of love.