A Good Life

Warmth presses against my chest
His body, a silent confession of need
Strong hands cup my breasts
gentle, like the fall of dusk
 
Curling my fingers around him,
I look into a future where we are
only ash remains in 4x6-inch urns,
small, contained,  
 
Can what we are now—
expansive heat and fierce wanting
be reduced to dust?
 
In that silent dark, will we harbor regrets
for what we dare this night?
 
And yet, how can the human act,
a single fuck on Sunday, August 18, 2024
be judged as anything but what it is—
 
a moment in time eternal
a choice
a fragment of a good life