Do you remember when a touch turned you into an identity? At what point of time in your childhood did a glance become desire? When I touched him I wasn’t sure I expressed a desire to touch. I lay next to him, passive, glancing, desiring to reach through that infinitesimal space between us and do something. Consume him completely. His bare chest rising with each breath, his eyes closed. I reached out, then, to stroke his face. He opened his eyes. He didn’t look at me. Understood, perhaps, the need not to look. Because that would become something, mean something, identify something. My dark brown skin caressed his fairness, down from his face to his neck and his chest. Ran my fingers down the young groove on his chest. Agonising…strokes across his erect nipples…lower, lower, reaching for meaning. He turned away from me and pulled back into my body, spooning. My fingers went lower and found him….enough
There’s a bicycle ride that will bring me music and his smile. I am cared for...
We have both lost. Perhaps we will both be deported, left on the beaches awaiting ships to take us to someone else’s home…
Two rutting dogs to be contained, leashed, and returned to sender…
This is all…what is left of us from all those caresses…
The little bit of freedom was buried in a touch…
