Untitled ★★★★

He would be,
I think,
disturbed if he knew
that I was writing poetry about him.
But it's not like I choose
what images
coalesce in my mind
like dew on morning leaves.

He is not
like dew on morning leaves.

But he is in luck,
I would not have it in me
to share these thoughts,
these accounts,
these drifting shards
and recollections of sensation
with anyone.

At least not until he is a dying memory.

The knowledge is mine alone
to hold in secret boxes
in my coils and loops,
to come unbidden,
awakened at dawn,
drifting in with the light.

He tasted like alcohol.
I think we both did.
But it was not
in so much
unpleasant.
And I liked the smell of his skin
and the feeling of tracing the lines
left in his body
with curious touches
and inquisitive eyes.

I know he doesn't really care for me
in any sort of way
that I could glorify and gussy up
with pretty words and my tendency
for aimless aesthetics.

But that's ok.

He is young, and brash
but surprisingly gentle.
He is concerned for me

after a fashion.

Sometimes.

And for what it's worth
I really do like him.
I am endeared to him,
try as he might
to give me reasons not to be.

I wonder if his shoulder aches
still
from where I bit down
to stop from calling out
as he pushed himself against me,
together a knotted pile of skin
boots, sheets, and
the bandanna I slipped from him
as his hair fell about my face,
this vivid slash of color
arcing over his head
and down
over us.

I seem to remember it the clearest.

I can recall,
when I close my eyes,
the feel of it coursing through my fingers
and sliding my hands past it
to grip the shaved sides,
to grab his neck,
to pull him closer,
to dissolve the distance of our bodies.

No, he would not like to know I wrote that.

And there is no way I could explain it.

And anyway

I don't know if he cares for poetry.