The sun has been rising for the last century,
and all I can feel for you is the dust
untouched by the cool waters of winter.

The sphinx is restless without the promise of reprieve
and Anubis bears his teeth,
because even the bones have gone.

When we last kissed in Venice,
were the roads not stiffly flooding?
They have grown shallow and warm in our absence.

What can we offer each other
if there is nothing to change us,
if there is nothing to renew after the stones become the sand?

We have not touched each other for years
and neither have we wanted to,
and we are learning slowly that ideal love was not meant to last.

There are too few places on this earth
and we have lived for too long
without the seasons to move with us.

So you are asking me, “Where is it
that we can go from here,” omitting the endearments,
and I will not have a reply

There is a nostalgia in our togetherness,
and we know we hold ourselves back
because we never wanted to die in the necessary cold.

We still crave the old sunlight
right as we turn from it, to the cool shadows—
and so we can never be free.