Wild Tender Fucking
In the vestibule
pausing
arms dropping with
weights holding
those long thin things
you call
arms down
straight at your side
instead of all over me.
You came closer
and made me
not dead,
decidedly
emphatically
not dead.
Sowing dischord
with that
singular look.
A city block
could watch
me
writhe and
crumple with
your
movements
as you put me
wide apart
bullying me
frightened into
corner.
Green tile cold
under pressing bare white thighs.
In this vestibule
I find out
that we have not love,
but care,
devotion, freedom
and nuance
between us
instead.
We only have wild, tender fucking
atop a cool white cotton sheet.