Night Swim
Tongue.
Dark.
Cold Sheets.
Tongue.
Clean.
No plumage.
Let your face get two inches from mine as we slowly grind. Let it be slow. Let it be breathing the same air. We kiss but only as a directional guide to let us know where the shoreline is. Breathing the same air, hands trembling as they run up and down the flanks of our body. I dip my forehead into your neck line and grab both of your hands to push them back over your head. You accept. You always accept. You know where the journey ends. You allow me to steer. Interlocking our fingers tightly, I move my knee under your thigh to lift your legs up into the air. You give a slight siren. Everything moves deeper. Dark water deep. Your tongue. Your face. We kiss. We kiss hard and then slower as if to bring things back to the shore. As if to dock once again. We repeat, hundreds of times. We keep the tide of the evening. We represent the voyage on the water. We are out past the bridge and beyond the sound. Deep into the night. Using our instincts to move. We repeat until the needle is off the compass.
