Wanting to unravel this tightly spun ball of failed dreams and broken promises, wanting to let the first tear fall, not fearing those that must follow it, wanting to wrap my whole world around you, to kiss you, to feel, finally, safe in something called love, to not have to worry about spending this existence alone. I've padded my bed's resume with short stints, waiting for my dream to arrive.
We made love, again, this morning.
Delicate diffusion of muted first light
Falling on the newness of these bodies intertwined.
My sleep interrupted by his furtive love,
Wanting so much to be okay with it.
I couldn't quite make out his eyes,
Only the serious serenity of his expression.
This expression of love either means
He is brave or a fool.
I guess I love either one.
Now adjusting to the weight
Of this responsibility,
This fragile soul
Placed both tentatively and willingly
In my hands.
What do I do with the part of me
That wants to crush it,
Discard it?
What do I do
With the part that accepts
The foreverness sewn into its seams?
-
We made love, Monday night, Wednesday morning.
Monday: smelling of the bar,
Stale smoke-screened kisses, beer breath on our skin.
Him, without inhibitions, without orgasm,
Him. Wednesday: unbrushed teeth & backwards
Froggy style, too kinky to be pulled from my bag of tricks
For more than one hyperintense minute.
He looks confused every time he comes
As if it were, somehow, my mistake,
Caused by the supersexed hypertext of my body,
A playground for sensual, sexual play.
He seems okay with lust as long as I don't say the word
Girlfriend.
Within this amorphous, undefined space
We make love.
I guess I like this attempt
That we're making in making this love,
But I wonder what lies he's telling himself,
Lies he's telling me
In my sleep.
-
We made love(?) Saturday morning
In the dank discretion of the basement
His impulse, my accord.
I felt strangely empty
Sex serving only to enable me
To show gentle affection, kindness.
I am going to leave him
Alone now, let him
Do his own thing without
Me in his life,
In his face,
In his way.
And maybe one day
When he realizes himself
He'll understand what happens
To dreams deferred
Loves lost.
-
We made love again, late last night,
The result, I guess
Of gently manipulating him
With my hand, my mouth
As long as he kept reading
My Russian homework to me.
How do I understand these cross-hatched feelings:
Friendship, love, lust, resentment,
Mistrust, fear and answered prayers
Embodied in a glance, a breath.
I find him ugly, now,
An unbearded bloat of pores and follicles,
Jowled and scowled by cruel genetic hands
Awkward and somehow inappropriate.
Still, I covet his regard, embrace, kisses,
Possibly for the sole reason that they're familiar,
Without surprise.
-
We made love, though fuckingly,
In the wee hours of Tuesday morning,
Going against my resolve
Toward him.
Deliciously raw,
Though preceded by very ardent kisses,
I bit his shoulder
To stop, quiet my moans.
I liked when he watched me
Getting pleasure, coming, combing
The slight give of his flesh.
I run my middle finger over him,
Like taut skin on the head
Of a drum, this morning
When his a.m. stiffness
Nuanced our spooning,
Mocking our decision to
Not make
Love.
Our hands lead themselves
As if by accident, habit
To places where apologies cover sighs.
I love him.
Not for the body, but the soul, its struggle for righteousness,
Its beautiful patchwork sanctity.
I wish he understood, was ready for the world I could weave us
Smelling of flowers and amaretto.
-
We made love this morning,
After having exhausted the sport all week,
Like desperate bunnies facing the end of the world,
Eating each other like the last supper.
He's so comfortable now,
Days separated into half-inside/half-outside
Of me.
I'm his.
