His breath, like a whisper in my ear, speaks multitudes. His story spills as from a fresh wound and puddles on the floor before us. I dip my toes in to test the waters. A beautifully uncomfortable sensation overtakes me, and, for a moment, my breath catches in my throat.
Should I speak? I wouldn’t want to spoil the moment; its glorious imperfection. But what of my silence? I wonder. Does not my silence also leave wanting? But no words make their way out of my parted lips.
And so I reach out to caress his arm, my fingers gracing scars that allude to stories that have yet to be told. Touch is the only expression of my feelings that I see fit. It is the only way that I might divulge what I wish without explicitly giving up my hand. And I’d just as easily not relinquish that power.
His eyes are now focused on me. In them I recognize a hunger – a hunger that cuts deeply into my flesh and penetrates my impervious veins. That sensation returns, forgotten for a quick moment, and I feel magnificently disquieted. He flows through me.
As far as my strength, before him I fall prostrate. To resist – or maybe give in – I avert my gaze to the ground, hard and unforgiving beneath us. It will not be this easy, I assure myself. He will not have me. I want out of this cold space where the darkness seems to swallow me whole.
Then I want to stay.
And then he moves toward me in a manner so deliberate that I could not help but wonder whether it was not I that moved toward him. How could it be that he have such control over me that I do as he commands with no instruction?
Even as my eyes are fixed on the ground, I can feel him inside and all over me. Even as I wish him away, I wish him closer just the same. Oh, why won’t he just take me? That would certainly put an end to any demure dissent.
I am inadequate.
And then it happens. I disappear inside him – or him inside me, I can’t be sure. But for one remarkable instant we are joined as one in the same under the heavy blanket of the night sky with no one as witness–