in the wake of idle moments 

i press you to me   

as when we stood as one

for a brief eternity that distant day

i write this cognizant 

that you have no patience 

for thought exercises 

in lieu of coursing blood

and shortness of breath

while i make due with remnants

and imagination 

it is what kept the great aesthetes

from madness 

to the extent that it did

suffice to say

i am mad for you