babyhead

You on a wednesday night out of nowhere, lay down beside me and rest your head on my chest as though we have shared tenders for a hundred years. That night we are in the middle of us. The room is dark, so there is that, and hot and there is breath. My mouth dry, my lips hard and swollen from kissing, if that is what this is to be called. I don't know if I am angry or frustrated. It has been three months since I last took you mouth. I want to shake you, but I just kiss you harder. You wil be sore in the morning, your body, my body, tender. It is that kind of kissing. You hold me. We grapple in the dark. I think that this says everything. I kid myself that this is enough. Your head turned to my direction, for a few hours, every few months. But then, no one has turned my head...much. My hand on the turn of your hip, in the dark, pressing into the bone, drawing itself in the curve on my palm, and drawing it again with the tips of my fingers. It is night, and I shake under my red tee shirt. You let me do what I want. You let me smell the thick of your hair, and kiss at the back of your neck. I can hear you like it as I do. I follow the arc of your upper lip and eyelid with no light. I wish my left hand was as acute as my right, but it carries itself dumb, and would rather support than repeat details. We have never held hands. I can't even say how long this has been going on for. I don't even know what this is. I don't allow myself to think about this. No name. It is what this is. I could stay like this for a long time. Distance. You won't call from that far away, but you will sneak up behind me, and poke me between the ribs.

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