Be

Tantric verbosity tangling two never should be’s
Effortlessly colliding never could be’s
Softly dying ever would be’s
Busy bees who never knew they shouldn’t
Firefight foreplay with the devils dirty dice
Rolling white hot
Heat
Through the easy discomfort of too tight jeans
Left as testament of what never would be on the bedroom floor
No lock we wanted more
Attention
To ease the tension in the high voltage sensations between our lips
Spilling words of dissent
The scent of skin that never should be
Bared, lingers softly
Coloring the room with the hazy vision of your lips pressed
So close to mine
Never
Ever committing the sin of the skin we both craved
Mentally
Picturing ourselves
Tangling
Marionette string promises
Fluttering our hearts in sick selfish syncopated time
Stolen
In kisses deeper than consciousness
Of the potential wildfire that kept the busy bees ever on the edge of being
One

5 A.M.

In the not silence of 5 am it's easy to be profound. There is nothing competing with your thoughts except nature, that night time cacophony that keeps the quiet from ever getting too loud. Tomorrow's dew is starting to settle on my face, decorating my eyelashes with perfect little spheres. Fingers intertwined in the blades of grass, holding to them as tightly as if they were a favorite memory. If you're still, you don't feel the chill creeping up your body. I didn't, until I felt how warm his hand was on my cheek. Id almost forgotten he was next to me, he like all things in my periphery had been swallowed by the not silence. Or maybe I was the one who had been swallowed, consumed by thoughts. He's speaking again. And again, I'm not listening. I don't think he minds really, he speaks I fade. That is how our relationship works. Somewhere in my mind I have a tape made of all the things he says when I'm not quite listening. Someday I'll find it and play it back. I turn my head towards his noise. The Christmas ornaments on my eyelashes fall. Sliding down my cheek, somehow these are cleaner than tears. Maybe, because they mean nothing, they simply are. He is so beautiful. His perfect lips forming words that look like "I love you." I lie there watching. Now he's smiling. I'm still. Not unable, simply unwilling to interact. At heart I'm a voyeur. I wish I could step out of myself as he leans forward kissing me. I kiss him back. It's a reflex. Like when the doctor taps your knee and your foot swings forward involuntarily. His lips touch mine and mine part, eyes closing reciprocating his actions. I will not reciprocate his feelings. Satisfied by the brief contact he lies back I haven't closed my lips yet. I lie there still mid kiss, eyes closed. I refuse to believe I've allowed the roles to reverse. I do not love. So I lie there hoping he will fade. But despite my efforts to remain inert, the lingering warmth of his lips echoes through my reverie. A vulgar alarm clock forcing my conscious self to acknowledge that this boy is more than a physical outlet for my energy, my aggression, my passion, more than my most recent conquest. I crave his noise when I'm without it for too long. His touch my drug of choice. The first time he said it, that dreaded three word phrase, I told him it was one sided. He told me I was a liar. I've never said it to him, out loud. The last time I said those three words, I died. If only that death had been in the physical sense. I was left outside, absorbed in afterglow unaware that I was already a past tense. That night I held tightly to the blades of grass, not in fear the way I do tonight, but in ecstasy. I closed my eyes and we were infinite. But really we were only twenty four more hours. My innocence his prize, once taken I was forgotten. It was from him that I learned how to fall in not love. To devour rather than be devoured, complete destruction of the other was the only love I'd ever known. The day I surpassed my teacher was the day I made him say it. The day I heard him say the three words which would have saved my life four years ago. But now it was I who did the killing. I turned my back on him and walked away in silence. When he had looked back to see his triumph, I didn't. I knew I had won. He finally said he loved me, and as with all the others I felt nothing except the thrill of victory. That was another moment I wish I could have stepped out of myself. So that I could see him die, so that I could watch that heart finally suffer the way all his conquests had. I brought him, my new him, out here tonight for the culmination of my efforts. Tonight I would make yet another trophy for myself, a flesh testament to my powers of seduction. I won, he loves me. Yet there was no thrill of victory tonight. There was no smug note to self about how easy it was to play this game. No cold smile as I stood and walked away. I never walked away instead I let him kiss me. Tonight when he said he loved me, I stayed frozen mid kiss, clinging to the blades of grass, because I almost said it back. In that instant of hesitation, my façade cracked. The cold detachment that had crept up my body four years ago melting as he moved closer putting my head on his chest, twirling his fingers in my hair. He's so warm his kiss on the top of my head tangible as he lies there making noise and holding me, protecting me. Doesn't he know that he is the victim, my prize and my toy? That for me he is a collectible that now acquired will sit on my shelf a reminder of success but nothing more. Yet I stay there not unable, simply unwilling to move. He's quiet now the rhythm of his breathing slow and deep I'm the one who is supposed to fall asleep in his arms. Though he is sleeping I stay. Hypnotized by his heart beat, I see the dew settling on his lashes. Cupping his cheek in my hand I lean in close my lips just brushing his not wanting to wake him, just needing to be close to him. If I could step outside myself now and photograph this moment he'd know. He would know that for the first time in four years, I felt. Silently and gently I mouth those three words onto his lips. There is time for me to tell him tomorrow. This time I say it for me. The feeling of the phrase so like a forgotten language on my lips, all at once it is strange and familiar. It feels good. None of my victories in the past four years have felt as good as the silent utterance of those three words. I didn't mean them the first time. I couldn't have. The first time they were three words, inserted into the silence because convention said that you didn't give yourself to someone unless you loved them. But now, I didn't even have to say them I felt them. I never knew that you could actually feel words. This phrase like an emotion washing over me replacing that cold calculating femme, with something genuine. In that epiphany I retook my innocence. What came before can never compare to what will come next. I love him. In this blue grey hour of not silence I am fearlessly profound.