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How we fucked up
Every time I fuck you now it's an accusation. It's me saying fuck you instead of pressing my cooling body against yours through the openings in our coats on the pier while the heavy water moves around us. I want the feeling of that first night back. Your shirt shifting over your breasts. Our moving shadows settling in the rafters over your bed. The sound of someone watching the vague television and your idea of make-out music which happens to be my idea of the soundtrack for sex. Everyone running past the open window, maybe looking in which doesn't really matter. Cinnamon brioche. Hard shiraz that forces us to dance. Sex without disguise, only our gasping, inefficient bodies. Now our love is a dark fawn and we are the good, clean thing inside it exposed to the night's fresh breath for the first time. Still throbbing. Only just.
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