The Little Lovers Poem by Bjorn Visser

The little lovers,
How they cross the distance with such haste
How about the sky?
Hands clasped in awkward movement.
I smell their sweaty palms
Cupping each other.
It's what they want.

The cigarette smoke
Littering their chitter-chat
An intimate party
A small dresser
And then none.

The darkened night
Kissing my face,
As he yours.
But mine with no distraction.
And then they smile.

He gently brushes hair aside,
With rusty yellowed fingers
You seem to believe all of those tiny chirps
Oh woe the silence.
One dreadful moment lost.
And you slip,
And he nips
And gone.

The little lovers,
Their feet so blistered with adore.
Their lips chapped from moments missed by all.
Forgotten yet shared.
Covered miles clinging on like baby born
In case the one should pop.
And float into the night sky towards me.
Blissfully dismissing the adoration and compassion.
Yet slightly amused.
On a dresser.
At the party
And none.

Oh woe the one
Who has not you.
Woe the one that is not yours.
For like a child he shall claw
Don't leave me.