He's gone, he's gone

our lubricious encounters
led to loud and resonant orgasms

and although you weren't exactly
the star of all my wet-dreams

it is fair to say
that I really loved you a lot

and that under the palm tree
on the veranda I enjoyed the espresso

and your eloquent conversazione
about the piano music of Robert Schumann

and the gradual embourgeoisement
of the gay rights movement

before toxic Miscommunication
began like Chernobyl
to leak between us

and you decided
I was fucking up your life

so that I no longer feel sorry
for what I said about your tattoos,

or for the fact that I will never
take you surfing with me again

 

 

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