And the award for the most unoriginal title of a poem goes to…
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In the ashes of orgasm we reek of sweat and solitude,
and your bed is wet with our motion.
Our breaths are the things to pierce the air’s attitude,
and I am struck with the most peculiar notion –
what if this is all there is?
Am I to waste these last years of my life in illicit communiqué?
In the self-obsession of your flesh and mine,
thrusting and receiving with rejection of the day,
when our biology defeats us, it is only a matter of time
until our biology defeats us.
And I know the answer agrees, that I am not built
with my illnesses, with foreign shores in mind –
and so I search for Paris in your eyes and Moscow in your guilt,
and Babylon in the smell you leave behind
when you go to wash your hands of me and mine.
And the television has been playing all the while,
a homogenised, discordant cover for personal sound
and a documentary flickers in pixels, sand around the Nile
and your footsteps are lost against the Nile and the ground
which supported monstrosity.
In the ashes of orgasm we reek of solitude and sweat,
and your bed is damp with pretended emotion –
we do not love, but yearn to love.