It was sultry for December.
Spring seemed to shiver in the air, frangible.
It was early morning, and the atmosphere was silvery, as delicate, as treasured,
as pearls.
And I remember sitting on you and around you, you cradled me,
Buried your head against my ivory skin.
It was white, see, because of the street lamps that made us
Leave writhing black shadows behind us.

(*)

I tore against the soft clothes of black air that enfolded us;
I reached up and we were mirrors for each other;
I remember hearing the music of cars outside in the street;
I reached up and you drew off my clothes, unfolded me, like
Shedding petals, like tulips exhaling slowly.

(*)

I only grew more and more in the darkness.
We swapped breath like cigarette smoke, we tugged at each other,
Pulled and tore with our teeth.
I remember my open mouth, my whole body chanting upwards,
You meeting it with your own.
Our movement.

(*)

We were trapped in this sort of circle, a delicate eggshell.
Outside, the light streamed on in lines without us.
We muffled each other’s breaths with our mouths, with our hands,
With whatever was touchable.
I couldn’t touch enough of you. Every flaw, every beautiful mistake
In the carving of your body, it was mine. I wanted to own it.

(*)

Finally, we’ve found something perfect.
We became slow, sung on each others necks rather than bit,
Moved around each other, left spaces, afraid to touch, rather than burn.

I sat on the edge of the bed.
You could see every knob of my spine, shining like oysters
In the pale light, and you kissed every one.

(*)

Beauty’s certainly a part of it. There were other things as well -
Things like the past, and tea, and Quentin Tarantino. Also
Things that echo when said, like loneliness and the word touch.