Honey Moon

That jittering conversation of necessity, flows pleasingly in chemistry on our meeting – interspersed with the repressed heavy-breathing of a midnight ascent.

The garish interface of that everywhere platform resigned to pockets; the honey moon breathes into a bowl of silence, weaving amongst moth-eaten wool in a damson sky.

Together in darkness, in a setting that envelopes our integration into a perfect night-time ecology of sombre orange moments, the hanging-resting of the night-time garden, and the smell of fresh dog shit on the close paws of curious greyhound.

You talk about your reluctance to love, and fear of the boy-other in the most transactional and dispassionate way,

I watch your skinny belly swell as you pant out a youthful confidence, so full of fear – so beautiful.

I tell you you smell of talc. I like your sense of humour.

Out of all those withering thumbnails of sausage-factory mundanity, your performance in a circle of pseudo-trust has preserved a laddish hardness in you – but not as clear-cut as a velvet-rage.

Kissing is that kind of kissing when boys who are only 20-nothing kiss.

I squeeze your hard cock and glare straight at you, probing boy-other fear in a gesture of tongues and cigarettes.

I’ll probably think about you a lot, for a few days.



Not fucking you was beautiful

Today I think about the kind of love that happens in those moments when love doesn’t seem like a possibility.

The kind of love that disperses in hot breath, on hot necks; in two index fingers between that miraculously smooth parting, between those miraculously smooth and perfect cheeks.

The kind of love, lost on the hunter – orgastically sinking teeth deep into skin, and membrane and sinew.

Pulsing flows out that perfect gesture.

Instead – this bite is different.

It draws me out, but I do not expend.

I lie there, pinned – not quite as sleek as I’d prefer. At first clawing to consume, I meet your posture and fold accordingly.

I pull past the desire for the hot froth of that wasted apex – and I greet you, warm to you, rest with you.

I played internally for half an hour with every crease of expectation, each flux rolling like the surging only in love.

And then I remembered your email about erotica.

And I understood.