It is that sort of night-- the mingling of cold air and warm blood; the singularity of fresh pain from an aging wound; and that madness of youth that haunts these old encumbered bones. It is a night of lingering wishes, where I would reach out without bounds to hold you with these hands at this moment. Where I would burn down the distance, let the cities and the highways crumble to touch your face, a-glow in the lost country of moonlight and whispers. Each thought that follows another-- that flag, that rabbit hole, the kiss amid the noise of hushed blood and seething stars. It is the sort of night where your absence casts you as all my mind can see.
A wall of rough stucco, moths beating out the tattoo of their own deaths above us, you pressed against the wall and my every vivid intent. Kisses where teeth clash and tongues scatter, breathing in heaps and gasps. Hand upon your thighs, garments discarded as falsehoods, touch and flavor muddling in our heat. A back-alley sanctity envelopes this passion, strong and insistent and manifest like any law of gods or nature. The press of flesh and bone and muscle, passion our only language.
In the cool wind, beneath a smeared weeping sky, I undress you and name you again and again. This distance between us is in earnest nothing, having long ago given away all our secrets. You know my moods and my fevers, the tunes my heart would have you play. There are no games-- no histories, no explanations, no alibis that can diminish us together. With the turning of the earth, the spying of the moon, the clamor of humanity and the toiling of the sea we are always here, entangled. The love that pulses through the weight and levity of existence flows through us, a graffiti of soundless words and gradient moans. It is the sort of night where, again, I kiss your absence. And again, in your dose of frailty and spirit, you feel my lips in their giddy pursuit. With only a gloating moon and a squad of errant stars as witness, we kiss.
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