Had desire to write a poem for the first time in a while. It is the nature of this night: Maundy Thursday
to speak of what has passed
he folded his clothes for the last time,
ordered his departure
though no one saw
him not pack
as he prepared
for the desertion of his lovers.
they faded in the face of their own fickleness.
forlorn, he knelt.
blood: testimony of his dedication?
it betrayed a deeper anxiety
that what would pass
would not pass
from his lips,
instead it stained him outside
a kiss that sticks from the lips of a friend.