for you like Laughlin’s Writhing Room in Paris—carved adornments, splendor, gold and red—your fingertip so much like the stuttering tattoo needle on my skin, your tracing marks it’s path under my skin, transmuted to muscle—my stomach contracts and I rush into you.

I am hugging you desperately in a wet heat—my sweat, my worrying, my hope, and my inevitable. My whiskey in the glass—almost empty—my stomach burns, as I would burn with you, some kind of sweet alcohol sickness, sour and grand in my stomach, like an unfurling beast—I uncurl like a wet fern in your arms that moment in the weak light on your white square of a bed—you kissing me… the metal in our tongues tangled, and stuck—never wanting to release.

There is so much more than my black shiny tight-laced boots, and this shiny freshly shaved head. In the weak light, on your white square of a bed—there is the downcast embarrassment of a boy when dealing with fumbling fingers on your button fly—and a snarky little grin will escape my blood engorged lips—because you have sucked the blood up to the surface in them—because this is what we need… and the little boy’s turned eyes will turn impossibly black when pupils dilate, when a dark heat is released, and new soul-sex vapors wisp out from undone jean buttons.

Black pupils, black eyes—a ring of gray—and you gripped in need, need gripping your shoulders—pushes you back hard into your white square, and squashes with weight, the weight of need… so much need in a body—I need so much from you.

From your mouth and your skin… sucking your cock, and your soul—I want, I need all of you to tell me—all of you for me—tell me about Halloween, your favorite costume, did you throw up when you ate all the candy? When was the first time you kissed a boy? Did you ever sit in silence in the heights of a tree and contemplate the tops of buildings—daydreaming you could skip rooftop to rooftop? Boy things—man things—human things… I want to draw it all out of you—I want you to feed me with this, yourself, us in this moment—please… relax your muscles, and breathe—and let me in.

This is not fucking.

This is the moment before fall—and winter’s kiss upon our land, when the chill would be too much to bear.

This is me dancing inside of you—and you, your heart—tears shed because I grip too hard, go to deep, and need too much—are liquid life, and suckled by the butterflies landing on the blooms of your beautiful eyes—your stem bends for me with that weight—and the heat from your heart, the recognition from your brain—and the train steaming to the end of it’s track in your balls, your cock that outreaching hand—needs me, knows me—and this moment, a moment of blinding joy and deaf pain—will last a second, but a second in this, in this bliss is worth a million days of the grind…

I grind myself into you.

You give it to me—all secrets, all little boy rock collecting memories—and a man’s memories of so many different tasting skins your tongue has touched. And this thrust—in this pre-autumnal cold is me, and you—and us—all we will ever be.

I like the moments after even better—when hands are heavy and wet, and map like a drunk the hills and dales of muscle and skin—and legs lock like a Japanese finger trap, and we will be trapped