We are obstinately alive and, to all outward appearance, things are back to normal
And you say, “Since when were we ever ‘normal’?” and I laugh like an idiot,
I just lose it completely because, even though you’re not that funny, you are.
The fact that you’re still around to be so not-funny fills me with wonder
And a joy that is devastating at the same time as it builds me up.
You smile, and I grin like an idiot – so much, so often, my face hurts.
I think people think I must be losing my mind again.
I think maybe they’re right. Better to lose my mind than lose you…again.
You say, “Not gonna happen,” with the confidence of the recently resurrected.
Who the Hell am I to argue? Tell me and I take you at your word.
If you’ll promise to be immortal and unchanging, spare me a year or two,
Or just one more night spent in your company. I’ll take whatever you can offer.
One more time let me be the recipient of your kisses and welcome you inside me.
As strongly or gently as your body dictates, spread yourself over me. Press down, push in.
Slide against my skin and rake your nails, with soft sorrys spilling from your lips.
I offer humble obeisance on rumpled sheets to have you echo my shape
So that I can feel your warmth against every exposed surface of my body,
And your heat within me that proves in the only way I can truly believe
That sometimes – sometimes – the good guys win.
He sprawls - sweat-sticky and sex-drunk - tempting me to cover him with my body, fuck him through the mattress again.
But not yet. I just want to look at him…
The fan blasting across us doesn’t stir a single hair on his head where it’s plastered down, like he’s a sculpture. But not cold stone. Blond wood - ash or oak, solid and strong. He’s perfectly still, breathing so shallow it’s hard to see the rise and fall of ribs, his slatted back making me think of practical art like vaulted ceilings and sailing ships with curved beams.
He is my anchor.