I suppose it had to come to this.
We do this awkward cyber dance,
sending the occasional email or
text, digital Im-thinking-of-you’s,
when all we really want is to hear
each other’s laugh, touch each
other’s skin, and kiss each other’s
lips like it was yesterday,
like you meant forever
and not a goodbye.
I swear, he was plotting my destruction.
Electricity coursed through my body each time his tongue parted me enough to reach where he wanted me to be. He would toy with me, just slightly slipping his hardness between my throbbing folds, his thumb circling my clit between each excruciatingly slow thrust. Impatience bested me in ways I begged against, but what can I do? I wanted more. I ended up heaving his name into the pillows and sheets beside me. “Look at me until you cum,” he demanded, his hands anchored in my hair. I kept my gaze right up until he released my lips from his kiss, as we screamed each other’s name as we exchanged gasps of air and murmurs of release. I live for these intimate dances for two.
I was taught to run away from flames,
from the lambent sparks that dance naked
on my skin when we touch, those tiny flickers
foretell a future of wildfires.
Leaves pirouette to their
final dance, like confetti
to their funeral.