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.