Five extremities creep, daintily, and uncertain across the sheets -- sliding along like running scales on a piano until they stop at those long desired slender ivory keys and claim them. Your thumb plants itself over mine, and our fingers weave together, finally.
Years of plié, plié, have strengthened my thighs for climbing into backseats, parked in backstreets, and onto your lap, where there's room to stretch out (comparably) and spread my legs as if they were in 2nd position. I kept thinking of us from 1993, bending in half, hairlines meeting the bowls made from our cupped feet, as a warm-up, while I was bent up against the steering wheel of your mother's SUV, and how you don't think I have cooties anymore.
I am an expat to this reality, relished without relinquish by those that think verbalization
is the sole means of communication.
A raise in volume, speaking slower, gesturing wildly, makes no difference because they don't
speak my language, or care to.
So I speak theirs, bumbling and about to burst while my kinsman remains quiet. He might as well be withholding air while i'm gasping, grasping for a gulp to fill my stifled lungs, suffocating in his silence, when I hear a snatch of familiar speech and I surface, I breathe easy, inhaling your perfumed oxygen, your weighty words.
He was yellow. But you, loose lipped and strong jawed, you could be ultramarine blue deep, and warm, and I could sink into you.