the afternoon has been left to us,
everything done, nothing penciled in.
we should buy champagne
(one of the bigger bottles)
and perch in your room
on your low bed,
drinking ourselves naked
while the curtains wave.

we could have one glass
for the cold tongue kisses,
and a second glass to warm us.
a third glass would free
our shameless hands
from our own laps.
four glasses and we
will be undressed
and against each other.

no pretty words when i sit back,
they are best said quietly
and directly into the cup of your ear.

your chin is red from my two day stubble,
i push up your shirt
until it is gathered under your chin
and your breasts are naked.
my hands on your stomach
are pale against your fading tan.
you must have been dark in the summer,
because it’s nearly winter
and you’re still coffee coloured.

we cannot steer a silence
like we can a conversation,
and our quiet looking
in the middle of what was meant to be
some simple lust and sofa fun
is twisting us together.

the mattress is a magnet
to the warm flesh lonely people
when the world’s eye the window
draws its curtain lids
and the late dark hours are tinted
by the light globe spilling yellow.

when all our words have burned
down to embers like a fire,
and our hands have found each other
in the space that’s left between us,
we know the mattress is a magnet
to the warm flesh lonely people

you could go back to your home
while i stay here in mine,
and if caution was the dollar
we’d both be poorhouse tenants,
but the mattress is a magnet
to the warm flesh lonely people.

will you stay with me tonight,
we are close as our clothing,
the kisses are not finished,
our hands are still busy,
and the mattress is a magnet
for our flesh tired of the separation.

we kiss in the confusion
of a last night only one of us knows,
me blind and eager for you
in your strange withdrawing.

i don’t know what it means but can feel it.
we’re naked and you’re escaping,
untangling during our knotting,
somehow giving sets you free.

empty is a fashion i cannot shake
like a haircut i can’t give up.
it fits me it fits my face
it fits my tall and slender frame
that does not buckle.

your turn to be the strong arm
but the track is in a circle
and the finish line is gone
and the race is left to you to end
and the ending is the pennant.

if only for some rewind,
past the dark patches and the troubles.