Does it count as taking your time,
pausing between each item
fingers on clasps,
heartbeat a tempo dancing
beneath the skin
in a skip, skip rhythm
I felt against my breastbone.
Slid my foot along the seat
of a chair like the one I sat in,
bare skin cold
against the plastic.
Counted the buttons,
two,
four,
six,
stopped
when they ran out
and fabric hung loose
from my shoulders.
Open.
Parted my thighs the same,
slow,
or maybe fast,
the motion of it blurred
in memory
distracted by your face
close to mine.
Open
mouthed.
Kissed you,
slowly.
Open legs.
I won’t say what we did
next.









You must be logged in to post a comment.