In September, when I undressed my chest for you for the first time,
wanting the soft and shamed skin to be anointed in your sweat
and hair,
I was surprised to see, once unblinded by my shirt,
that you had cupped two hands to your eyes
like you were praying, like we had gotten to this moment of trust
to feel less alone in the hot trails of summer that had chased us
inside.
You left my legs shaking, knees unsteady on a mattress,
head bowed in supplication, in sanctuary, in your room’s quiet.
I asked for clarity as I looked at you there. When I lean in,
you call my rough hands soft and needing. Our voices rise up
together, curling into the eaves and crashing down.
I tell you to open your eyes, and your mouth seems to whisper,
as it meets mine.
