Our last conversation

boing, boing

"Are you happy?"

boing, boing

"This is about as close as I get."

boing, boing

boing, boing

I want to know if it has happened already, but I can't know that.

I am so impatient for despair and your damn relentless hope is the only thing that lets me walk away almost calm. The tears only show at the edges, and if you asked me I would say it was fatigue, but you don't ask.

Instead you show the remarkable faith of letting go.

Your way is simpler, but I am a poet. At least, that's what they tell me.

So let our last conversation be the sighing of skin on skin. The alien mechanics of an ordinary act. The untranslatable first words of Adam, as secret as a heartbeat. You told me to open my eyes you told me to open my eyes you told me volumes in Braille I was reading your skin and saw it all that time for the first time.

For the last time.

If I had known that you were going to run,
I would have given you better music.
I would have chosen more wisely
words mingled among rudimentary kisses.
I met your eyes; you were hiding in my periphery.
You trailed off into the softness of me,
handling my arms, my hair, discovering hips and mouth,
and I sighed like a girl, despite my twenty-five years.
You were tentative, hot and waiting,
behind the gleam of teeth and glasses.
I could hear your heart fluttering,
thrashing like a salmon leaping into the stillness of a waiting pool,
the triumphant claiming of what it had always wanted
your heartbeat quickening beneath cotton//flesh//bone,
at the warmth of me,
feeling the eventual culmination
of all we had been saying
and meaning to say
and, then,
we were.