Sex dream with Michael

In my dream there is no more numbness,
(anywhere) but what I feel is still not quite
right.

I start by facing him, our heights don’t match
so I have to look up. “How do you like it?”
I say; a slight smile, “The other way.”

And I turn, flat on my stomach across the bed,
hips up, feet still on the ground. I don’t feel the
pain, or pressure when he enters me,

just tiny pinpricks across my legs, like pebbles
stuck on the inside, racing to protrude through skin;
like rain,

falling so fast and wildly that it never hits the same patch
of earth twice. He moves above me, bodies swinging like
tree limbs (intertwined) during a great storm,

but rather then feeling the connection; the space and
occupation of part of his body inside of mine, I feel
the weight of him.

The blessed weight moving; I can feel every hair stroke
my skin like a silk brush; the stagnant rush of his
breath breaking across my back, along my neck.

The way that I can feel the energy from his hands long
before they ever touch my skin. I am so enchanted by
this feeling that I forget everything else.

“Don‘t just lay there,” he says, and I pull my arms up,
stretch them wide, ambidextrously, impossibly, until
they circle him. I suck on the tough layers of his cheek,

working them slowly down to gold, I write my name across
his skin with my tongue to prove that in this moment he
and I belong to each other. Slavery is like innocence in

that you are oblivious to any other form of existence.
And with a tight breath he fills me; his face so close to
mine, I can feel his gasps skip across my breasts like

leapfrogs. I wonder what he was like as a child.
A wild boy, I think, a beautiful boy. The same,
and yet different.

He is sprawled over me, draped like a blanket
with his arms around me, a curtain to block out
the sun,

but when I wake the uncertain numbness returns
with its certain frankness to beguile me like a beating.
The sun is sighing in through the blinds,

sending harsh lines across the floor which is covered
in yesterdays clothes, and shoes, and unread books,
I’m in bed trying to block it all out,

trying to go back to wherever it was that I just came from.
Trying to win myself back to a time when I did
not wake up alone, in the futon, with a sleeping bag

slung over me rather then an actual blanket, or a boy.
To a time when the shape of the walls made sense,
to a time when being blessed with another persons weight

over me was the only time that I truly felt like myself.