Fleeting

Passion is the sensation of loneliness to come,
every touch a reminder a memo an incessant awesome drumbeat
that one dreadful, glorious sunrise this will be

over,
either a book well-read or
perhaps the terrifyingly neat excising of your appendix.

Will I breathe, pen, cold relief? Or
float, unknowing, through the moist
consuming damp of loam and bones?
Useless, paralyzing uncertainty and its inevitable adopted child ambivalence cling,
old wing-weights dragging from scapulae.

We're all lonely anyway,
not so much galleons glancing in the night as
ersatz hairy asterisks, looping around jewel-bright human systems
for a cosmic picosecond before
screaming off, bleeding iron-rich ice, in eternal frantic search
for gold-leaf-thin shining scraps of connection.

Passion may amplify future misery,
but she is warm and pulsing and present
here, Now,
together.

Any feedback is greatly appreciated! I'm new to poetry; feel free to tear this apart.