1

If I were brave, I’d say, You were preparing to leave, weren’t you? But that was not in my mind when his body grew large, and he made himself small, almost an infant in my arms.

I tried not to cry as his tender hands wandered over my body. They moved over places resisted and untouched, made acceptable by books and fine arts of all kinds. I was his latest conquest, and I couldn’t tell why; the intensity and quickness of our silent orgasms were the latest walls we built as the wildest creatures for and against an equal submission.

He quarreled over our intimate association while I melted in my tenderness and awareness.

If I could commit to anything, he’d say, bellowing a fever so potent that it burned a ring around them. And he wouldn’t finish. Not extraordinarily or ordinarily. He just wouldn’t finish, leaving us in erotic excitement for nothing. Still, the way the sun shined and the sound of another voice talking, divined, sufficient to release and to arrest every impulse.

He stormed and conquered when he awakened me and moved me to my pleasure. My skin so hypersensitive, and my arms draped around him in a deadweight of acceptance, a little girl without a plan for an hour, a day, a year.