Our hands found each other under the tablecloth. I, the self-proclaimed gentleman, and you lady-like and regal with your hair tied back and silver necklace reflecting in the light. I saw a flicker of recognition in your eyes as we talked about things. There was a trio – drums helping isolate the trumpet – its tone light and melancholy. I played with your fingers and sipped the wine – a ruby entrance to your white cave.

A walk – brisk and with direction, guiding us to the destination of desire.

The door closed, muffled only by the tearing oppression of clothes being dis-articulated – forming a line to your bed. My tongue found yours and we delicately played with each other. I snaked my way to your sex – planting myself on you – tasting the ocean and sweet saltiness.

Mounting you, for the first time, I eased slowly and caught your winces with my lips – watching a tear develop in your sapphire infused eye. As I interrupted with an eruption – there were gasps and the exhale of air: like wind trapped in a tunnel.

Morning, a flutter of eyelids, a moment of calm descending on new treasure. The bitter coffee and newspapers strewn about like papier-mâché. Little prisms of light and shadows playing on your face. There was a shower, a playful frolic in that escapade. We drenched each other in promises and platitudes. We grasped early that this treaty would be short lived. Somewhere in a subway I cried: the train departing, you on it.

Me watching.

We used each other then, for comfort and the addictive prescience of skin on skin.

by : Alexander W. Kalim