a memory:
I did not kiss you when you came to pick me up, nor once during the drive. I had kissed you when we finally parked, as I was preparing to pull my things from the backseat. I kissed you like I loved you.

your sweat drips onto my face. there is no space between us. your room is hot, the sun is high, your roommate is gone. we have made love once already. 

this time it is slow: it is too humid and we are too lazy to do much but move against each other. the sex, as always, is good. your head is on my shoulder and I cup it with a loving hand.

you lean up. blink. your eyebrows are so high that your forehead looks crumpled and foreign. your face is red. shuddering, you manage a smile and it looks like you love me.

we are making love, and alone I will come to this memory for months afterwards. we make a thousand thousand new ones but this first instance, full of love, is precious.
gentle, concerned, strong,
never careful, no hesitation--
the main event, as promised.
my body on yours was not new,
but only barely; weeks of touch,
of kiss, of reassessing and
turning friend into lover.
you pressed me into the bed--
smiled, wicked and sharp--
and said, "we should try
everything, just to see
what you like best," and I knew

that I was totally fucked.