My mouth is paper-dry when he touches me and my body tense
Firm fingers massage my taut muscles, teasing them into soothing
relaxation and I tremble at his lightest touch, feather-soft and gentle.
He grins at me knowingly, wickedly, his hair flopping in his eyes in
mischievous manner, as he brushes soft lips over mine in sexual sign language
conveying quiet passion and joy and hope, with an atmosphere of reassurance.
I pull him close, wondering at the curvature of his body, the slender muscles
and oh-so-familiar face. Even when he is away I see him, for mirrors speak of
figures carved in genes, of identity, and replicated images. Such intimacy, though,
is entirely new, yet flickering ideas of déjà vu and confused thoughts traverse my mind;
memories recalled where there are none; intimate knowledge of him from shared years.
My wandering hands caress him even as I consider the consequences of my touch,
of those who would wish to condemn, to judge and of secrecy and whispered love.
They say adolescents experiment, explore the unfamiliar ground,
but his texture, taste, touch, is recognizable and almost an extension of
my self and I know, with all certainty, I want no one else, no other,
for who could love me more than him, my twin, my brother?