My Attic Room
You and me in my attic bedroom in Somerville. Green and tan striped wallpaper inexpertly hung on deeply slanted walls. Futon on the floor, the smell of warm cedar, window fan lazily stirring the air. Dust particles floating suspended in golden light that falls across the hardwood floor in a diagonal. Your eyes the bluest I have ever seen. Your skin so pale it is almost translucent. Your short hair black and curly, surprisingly silky to my touch. Your mint fresh breath against my mouth as if you could breathe for both of us. We try to stay away from each other but we are the drug the other is always craving, we are the hum in each other’s blood. You don’t tell me how you explain your absence from home and I don’t ask—you are the only thing that makes me feel alive. Your soft breasts visible under ribbed white men’s undershirt that sticks to your skin with summer sweat. You twist your fingers in the belt loops of my shorts, pulling my hips closer to yours. Our mouths always hungry, our bodies straining to meld into each other through layers of thin cotton. We are liquid fire in each other’s arms. The feel of my hands tangled in your hair, the hitch in your breath when I trace your throat with my lips. We tell ourselves that it is just kissing, that as long as our shirts and shorts are on this is not an affair. We rationalize this wildfire passion to ourselves, to each other, even when we arch our bodies into each other, even when you give me your gentle and your fierce, even when you call in the middle of the night to say that you can not stop thinking about me, that you can’t live without my apricot kiss.