Time looks up to the sky

I wish I’d kissed you when I had the chance.
Your face hovering there, so near to mine,
your mouth pursed—what word was it you pronounced?

When I think about you, something in my pants
tightens, and my thoughts run, and I realize
I should’ve kissed you when I had the chance.

I want that moment never to be past
like Keats’s lovers on the grecian urn:
his mouth pursed, her figure turned to pronounce

her hips in ways that are not feminist.
But time strolls mildly on, not glancing at my
wish to kiss you when I had the chance,

whispered like a beggar to a prince
outside his palace: time looks up to the sky,
purses his lips, and hears what I pronounce

but pays it little mind. If he would just
turn back, bend down, and follow my design,
I would have kissed you when I had the chance,
as your mouth pursed and you pronounced goodbye.