Published on: 1/13/2014
Doorbell

Here we are, reeling from the audacity
of occupying a room together, our bodies
abandoned at my bedframe as if
waiting to be noticed or collected,
tongues toiling assiduously
at ice cream and conversation. I am not
permitted this clemency, even as you
begin to conquer the rift
echoing between us. Your arm
is not warming my shoulder,
our noses not understanding odours
for the first time. When your face takes mine
in like walls to silence, it is not an excuse
to crave. How long can proximity
deny dependence? This is a room of
too many omens: tap water idling
in a mug, sun locked away by curtains,
your shirt collapsed on the carpet
like a means to an end. Yet if familiarity
is what it takes for you to be here,
your lips persevering in
its gentle craft, its whispers
roaring across the infinite dormant
caves of my body, so be it. There will
be fresh sheets when you call.