they said to read cavafy,
that classicist, nostalgic and horny.
or lonely. or something.
there’s a restlessness there,
echoing yours i think
it’s more a willful aimlessness,
a willingness to abandon
a train of thought, a history
filmed with dust, a longing
for something lost, something
with weight, shadowy gestures,
desire gained so rarely, and thinly.
ah, cavafy. you’re always on the edge
of saying something.
you meander amongst ruins,
burdened with longing, burdened.
tell me what you want.
is it really only beautiful bodies?
i am unconvinced. is it beauty?
are you being coy?
or merely guarded?
lovely wanderer, let’s stop playing games.
let me take your hand.
let us walk together.