We slept together last year, 2016, twice.
You came from behind so as to avoid eye contact.
But you didn’t wear a condom.
You pushed me against a wall so as to maintain control.
But you didn’t let me go down on you.
Your eyes started to well when they met mine.
So you smoked to numb the feelings.
They came anyway, in the form of analytic words.
You talked yourself into loving me but then shook your head with doubt.
You got off quickly but then kept the time to continue my pleasure.
A delicate technician, you worked to make me climax
Only slipping for a moment when our eyes locked, I came, you rejoiced, we smiled.
You didn’t hold my hand.
But your hugs lingered and repeated.
You didn’t act interested.
But you questioned about my love life, quickly providing advice.
But then our eyes met, inhales shortened.
And we kissed, for a messy moment that continued to linger.
You pulled away but then made up an excuse to head to my car. And then to your apartment. Twice.
The second time, you walked ahead as I followed, avoiding eye contact, leveling your head.
Until we were alone in your new place, until I playfully flirted.
And you got self-conscious about my jabs. You defended your furniture. Your style.
You told me we couldn’t keep doing this. That you’re not ready. That you can’t.
Then you cried in the kitchen, on the couch, in the bathroom. Then you couldn’t stop crying.
Two years together, two years apart, loving kindness, respectful heartbreak, Falling together, falling apart, together, apart.
Just give me your head. Just give me your heart.