Why is your mouth  
an open wound  
that never weeps?  
Surely you own a sound   
that can open at least   
one door to Heaven  
that can enter me whole   
or not at all  

Even the city cries at night  
I have heard it sobbing   
under the straining metal  
of its mighty erections  
I have heard it moan   
under the topple of stars  
that melt in the sky  

Dying streetlamps   
stare back  
at the press of your body  
as you pour yourself    
into me  
a thin wine   before its time  

And   still     
your hand urges me  
to perform the ceremony of molten dream 
as the moon gets tangled  
in the web of your smile 

I cannot weep enough  
for both of us   forever  
Life is not a contest  
and already it is dawn  

Even in awe of your silence—  
and it is profound—  
the warm cum you wear   
on my trembling lips  
Time shall soon peel 
like a mask