Part III
My boyfriend kisses with tongue and folds his fingers
into the space between my thighs.
I label this
as the night my body became a poet,
became a vessel for words that would sing a lover’s
hipbones to high heaven, would graffiti
its heart’s interior walls with his memory.
He is beautiful when he sleeps, like boys are
beautiful when their mouths are still soft as peaches
from kissing you hard until you bruise.
.
Lying beside him in the late afternoon light,
I trace letters on his bare back as he sleeps.
He believes I am tickling him,
arousing him for more. In ways, I am.
I continually want more of you.
.
I record each
metaphor that fills my mind, for later,
as he bends me, as he moves in me,
as I move over him, staring out the broad window
to the streets below, quilted with snow,
as I slump over him, exhausted now,
kissing the orgasm erupting from his lips.
Thinking, wherever you’re coming,
I hope I am there.
