Sometimes life graces us and our moments

I


Pop art Marilyn is smiling, coloured eyes still, and we know that we are alone.
They say that good things come in pairs, but you calmly say that that is trash,
trash like my pleated skirts and lipliners.
The two of us are dynamite and sensitive, knowing that a single touch
will light fireworks and set the seas on fire. Quivers meet the thought.

I wish that we could leave this place and go home,
but you say no, we have to say hello to your sister, even if she doesn't want us here.
Let's leave. These shadows can be left behind. I think you feel safe here,
sweeping your fingers across chipped tea cups and ragged curtains.
The floral pattern matches your pale skin perfectly, I think.
You shake your head and say that I always think that.



II


You wonder, Caradoc, if it will always be like this.
You are sat on the stairs with dares and dreams in your mind,
and poems on your tongue, as your cuticles press against the banister.
You wait and wait and wait, knowing that when he comes in the air will change,
reddening your cheeks and stifling your breath as you resist.
Burns run up and down your cheekbones at times like this, but you try and ignore it.
You want the chaos to take over once more, possession.

He comes in from the snow and shakes diamonds from his hair.
You stand for him, Caradoc, and know none of this will go away.
Splinters seem to have dug themselves into you, and you go numb,
the bumping of your heart even seeming to cease. It's a struggle,
and it's cliche, but you don't want the end.

He brings in the smells of the night, the bitterness and sweat.
It's a sweet smell, but it's very male. The thought bubbles and presses
on the back of your brain, threatening to burst and soak the moment.
You can't let that happen, and so you focus your eyes a little more;
concentration keeps the mistakes away, after all.

A duffel coat is curled around him, sleek and soft, and you laugh.
He has bought the cold in with him, and so you both stay silent,
tongues running across silken gums. His eyebrows knot and he must know;
he looks like a mess but you're sure that he is oh so controlled.
It all moves within seconds because he's looking like he always look,
and you give in.

It has moved and you wonder, wonder if there will ever be a time
when this touching means nothing. Your thoughts are dangerous,
they interrupt one another as you both close in, cloth on cloth.
Teeth clash against teeth; it is slippy and you feel you will fall,
but he will catch you, fingers gripping tense elbows.
It is radiant, personal radiance. You're in a place you always go,
caged above dizzy days, and you love how it feels.

It strikes you that you will not always be alive.
He feels you are pondering and pulls back, his eyes dreaming of you
and you
and only you.
He tells you to shut your brain down. For him, you try.
It's passion and it's honest and it's free,
and it is yours and yours
and only yours.