We were a composition
of contrasts, my skin
sliding like milk across
your varnished walnut
planes. You tasted
heady-rich, warm cinnamon
and rum. When it was done
you wanted me to stay. I
made you drive me home.

We were swift, only
a little storm, now blown
over, never a stable
state. I wrote myself
upon you in a foreign
tongue, choosing not to read
what always lay beneath.

We are only this
in memory: the harsh
light in your room,
your wary eyes,
your mouth and hands
on me, sweat-twisted
sheets. You were afraid
of hurting me, you said,
while my body begged
to be broken open.