"Brown Bones"

"Matter and motion," you said during our first surreptitious, off-campus lunch, "is all." Then you kissed me.

I leaned in to that kiss. To your touch. Your bed.

Your department head discovered us. You wanted to end things quietly. I refused.

Impetuous, like my willingness to meet you. To make up. Alone.

"If vice makes you happy," you said, "then love vice."

Now my matter moves to disorder. Ripe. Rotting. Forgotten.

Except by you. Shivering at bricks and shovels. Wondering if the crossing of that great gulf goes only one way.

How ironic. Finally something I know that you don’t.