walked past my old apartment on West 82nd last night. I could still see
our shadows wrestling answers, escaped gasps from bodies both,
forceful and resistant: the push pull of a master and servant. Interchanging.
How sweet
I recall - you went down so slow, fibrillating blouse.
And you ripped my collar down over your mouth and grabbed
my tongue
between your lips, slowly tugged my mouth into you. One look.
One look and you were a crumb stuck under my nail. Yes,
in that old apartment, we had drawn each others limits
by going too far once too twice. I peered into the bay
window and gazed at the brick wall. Our brick wall where you stood
me against deadlines, doorbells, people watching from the street.
Hiked up my skirt and unhooked each button slowly, slowly, the garters
fell. I remember the animal sound that escaped from your throat. Vulnerable,
a living tremble gelatinous
sinking into darkness. You never wanted to be saved. You didn't comprehend.
This walk, a familiar perfume smokes into an open window.
You, sitting at your desk in the loft, smiling, head cocked in one hand.
I know it's been too long,
but I know that expression: you will not sleep tonight you sense
my chemistry shape pulsing the hot air
toward the greatest question one could hope to be presented with: Will you turn
your back on the cold, stony predictability of the internet?
will you climb down the fire escape and stalk me throughout the night, scratching you pale skin on the bricks, crashing into me, stumbling down an alley to wrist lock my thighs against the pathetic staid lives we've lain down for?
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