Secret whispers, like secret fires,
sizzle in the deep shadows of the room;
a wandering stillness creeps across the ceiling
above our shared insanity of longing,
and lust flicks its fingers around the edges
of the eclipsed curtains,
drawn across the eyes of peering peers.
In check, tentative, hands hold hands
hold each other, stroke skin, lace fingers;
new scents oscillate the hairs of our senses
dowsed limp by heat irradiating from me,
at some point some slow equilibrium
calming our mid-night temperatures
– until morning we face our faces
in cool concordance;
just a few more minutes as though
they’re the last of the last,
but it’s so hard to get up from each other,
until one relents – or resists – and leaves the other,
drawing back the curtains of reality.
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