The Kind Worth

Under pale moonlight we made colorful love,

it was the kind worth writing about.

I laid you on a bed of blades.

Though the grass too weak to pierce,

it had grown in strength to bear us up.

All of us.

The promises we made

as our lips were laid

on words and mouth

of you who’d never call again.

Coalescing love single-minded yet hypnotic,

it was the kind worth thinking about.

Our skin pressed against the others

like making stamps with leaves for a class project.

The future we had,

as if our paths were patterned plaid,

ever intersecting,

with who we buried on a Thursday.

The orgasm of which I will never forget,

the kind worth dreaming about.

Was not when you touched or moaned so soft,

but when you stood on the increpit lakeshore,

felling to the fireflies,

“I love him! I love him! I love him!”

And none dared respond,

for only I did belong,

inside that cavity of ticking warmth,

although now only I can shiver so coldly.