In the saturate and scarlet beginning, we will carve a home in our shame. Secrets will be used as a resource between us, black oil currency for building thick momentum. The soft bit we’ll bite for attention. Secrets will become our home, built in anticipation for storm or wandered into from the wildwood. You will reach for my hand across all of the tables, in the rain between umbrellas, above the train tracks on the way to Vermont; our strange palms will slip their canvas maps against each other, wearing away the deltas that span finger to finger.
Soon our bare legs will ride against the steely hot banister of an afternoon in August. I’ll lift my long haunches, touch the slow gear and pedal ahead. Pressing backward, stretching my spine until descending. My legs will craft an elegant gait and wise step toward the bar. You will look rare and I won’t love you. Let’s have a drink. Let's unfurl and convex what is concave and bitten all over. A second glass of Rioja will twirl another dark thing out of my lungs into your forgiving lap. You’ll hold it with care and I’ll open your pocket and the lint will cling closely recognizing another disposable thing. The sun will fall and spill its colors. Your hair will take on its last blush, silver-pink tufts baffling the vernal lines of your forehead. I will swivel my hair back, gifting my jugular; loose-headed, loose-lipped, pupils wide and tight, shuttering the light of your sweet, quantum heart. Day will fall and darkness now discovers us. Because, you, with a love like that. Shadows settle finely on our skin. I’ll put an ear up close to the ground between us and hear hoof beats. After the third glass, I’ll taste the salt and freckles across your shoulders. The wet apex of my legs tightens. You will find fresh crows feet and sigh hot between my eyelashes. Should we open another bottle? Place your glass over here. Don’t knock it over. Get closer to me.