Oh let me die, or you, or this;
where now we strain towards a kiss,
and now away. My bones are pressed
against my skin. Oh god I miss
not being pushed, not feeling pulled
or, being by this passion ruled.
in greasy static magnet fields -
we slide around each other, fooled
into this slick and cold suspense
I throb from warmth to frozen tense;
both past and future clot my tongue -
I cannot lay this out in sense.
I cannot lay this thing and grieve.
‘Nay, I have done’, I want to breathe.
now, at the last gasp of love’s latest breath,
Still - you could lie, and I, believe.
Tribute to Drayton ‘love’s farewell’ - (available online at www.bartleby.com/106/37.html)