That first kiss, with you leaning against the wall. Grabbing my hand and pulling me close, and I with an ear-to-ear grin because I knew what was coming next. I love how you are no taller than me when I am in heels, because I have to lean my head down very slightly to kiss you.
I was drunk with it, my hands against your chest, even when you stopped I pushed forward again. Your lips were soft and sweet, you tasted of strawberries and beer and cigarettes and lemongrass tea.
“Pushy kisser,” you tease, pulling me into the lift. The rest of the evening only serving to make my heart race even faster, beat even harder. Your hand on the small of my back, or stroking my hip and thigh. Possessive, gentle.
And back in your room, you lying supine on the bed. The slow burn as I lean over you, and we kiss oh-so-fiercely. You are all small nibbles and skillful lips, whereas I am more lascivious, tasting your mouth with my tongue. We are not compatible kissers, but we undress each other anyway. You get up to turn off the lights – leaving the hall light on and the door slightly ajar in a teenage move which I find breathlessly winsome. My jewelry, gold coins and seashells and kissing fish, tossed aside.
Your compact body hard against mine, your hot breath and cool lips against my neck, collarbone, as you rid me of my clothing. And when I roll on top of you, pushing you down, your strong fingers clutch at me in ecstasy.
There’s something that’s almost reverence in your almond-shaped eyes when you caress me (“you are so wet,” you murmur), and I taste your skin – strangely sweet. The blue-white glow of your room, the soft jazz, I am lost in this cocoon of pleasure. You pin me down by my wrists and taste every inch of me.
It’s biting and white-hot heat and slow even movements that drive me wild, moans muffled by soft kisses and I am holding on for dear life. My eyes are open in this little death, taking in the grace of your cheekbones, the lust in your eyes.
There are books decorating the floor Dust embracing the walls And stars studding your dreams A sparking sharp pane of cracked glass
There’s this strange grandiloquence in a hermit shell life Heavy curtains blocking out sunlight Preventing growth And living oh so small leads to larger dreams
You are impermanent in this home where you were born and lived and your mother died Nothing has lasted This uneasy detente with Oedipal foes And bringing home strings of women who want to capture and cage you Under the guise of setting you free
You are, for all your placidity and resigned shrugs, stunted in this gloom Because every bud needs sunlight to blossom As she has demonstrated with unfurling fingers And a limber dancer’s frame that she drapes over you
What are you chasing, little one? Offshoots of fame and fortune and freedom Where Whitman and Thoreau and Bukowski inspire envy Where dreams blur reality as whisky dulls pain
I don’t think even you know.
I want so badly to share in your loneliness To absorb these melancholy maudlin fancies The ones that cobweb your eyes And shroud your slowbeat heart in slowdeath sadness
And you whither, when you should be thriving In this brilliant dusty green gemstone room Factotums and lore and stories and skis and slippers What is it you hide in your clutter?