Lust

He hands me his maths notes, as I
Numbly stand, with my face blank,
Expressionless, concealing my self: a necessity.
Thereby he thinks he knows me well; I hear his
A fortunate mistake. brother come in

I initiate polite niceties. We small-chat
On which albums to buy; on how very
Boring Xmas is, and if his certain I hear his brother
'She' knows that he is attracted to ascend the hall
Her. I hide my raw gnawing anticipation, until

His brother popped a head, and then himself,
Complete, through the door. To me he
Smiled, and said 'Hello', which
Pleased, and delighted, me, of course; after all,
I wanted to fuck him.

Whereupon I felt guilty, and corrupt,
And dirty - a dirty old man His brother left for
Wishing, so unrequitedly, to his own room
Fuck a fifteen year-old.
Painfully aware of my hollowness, deprived of
Love - or affection - or sex -
I killed the niceties, left the
Plush home, and bitterly departed for
My house. I passed his brother's room when
Leaving, and frustratedly wished the wall between
Us was gone.
(Perhaps he changing his clothes?)

And yet why to feel this way? Surely,
To think two years (four months and two weeks)
Of insurmountable importance: stupid,
Isn't it? Yes! Of course it's
Ridiculous to feel ashamed:
The irrelevance of two years!
I need only look at Oscar and Bosie
For a precedent. And, after all,
Two years - no real importance,
Is there?

But I know it matters.
At night, alone, lust cannot keep me warm,
Nor fill the gnawing hollow in my
Body. I may wish that I did not have
That concrete wall of sexual correctness
Blocking a dreamt-for path,
Stemming all that I may be, but
This much I know:
That smooth pale body, those red rose-leaf lips,
That delicately athletic frame, those impudent eyes,
Never can be,
For me.