I mourn for things I will never know –
how a mustache would feel against my lips,
how a walk in the Norwegian snow
would freeze my January fingertips.
How a mustache would feel against my lips,
and how the Norway Northern lights
would freeze my January fingertips
before the warmth of heavy quilted nights.
Oh how the Norway Northern lights
would open my hungry, empty eyes
before the warmth of heavy quilted nights.
Mustached lips upon my thighs
would open my hungry, empty eyes
to a hope in something beyond tomorrow.
Mustached lips upon my thighs –
I mourn for things I will never know.
May 15, 2024
Pantoum #3