Here
“Come here,” he says, arms extended, and I fall next to him on the bed. I press my body against his body, rest my lips on the curve of his neck. I breathe him in. He pulls me tighter, closer. We haven’t seen each other in a week; words spill, spelled across the surface of body: how are you, who are you, now? His mouth upon mine is a question.
I answer as his tongue slips inside my soft lips, sending thrills of pleasure and deep want inside me. He kisses me hard and encircles me with furious, protective love. His eyes burn, keeping me bound with desire. Spark, slap, tickle. Arms and legs contort in esoteric positions, suspended pleasure-pain. We worship each other’s body, searching the surface of skin for the key to the soul.
We love eye-to-eye, mind-to-mind, body-to-body. Fuck sex, we are making poetry. Outside, the birds are singing violently. I add my own wild call to his, and our song breaks together, lifting across the afternoon sky. After, our bodies entangled, we rest. I hear his breath deepen and listen to the sounds. Woodpecker, warbler, thrush. The world is a symphony.
His lips are half-open, pursed in half-sleep twilight, waking dreams. He stirs with a start, a shudder. “For a second, I didn’t know where you were.” I note how physically close we are. My head is resting against his, my lips are on his shoulder. His arms enfold me, his hands are tightly holding my body to his. Our touch is rough, weighted; our bodies are entwined. Together we appear one body.
“I’m right here,” I say, and he pulls me even closer. There is no place I would rather be. Here, in his arms on a Saturday afternoon, surrounded by sunlight and birdsong, my heart is full to the point of bursting. Here. Present. I smile and embrace the moment, accepting the gift.
*
V-J Day in Times Square. Photo by Alfred Eisenstaedt, 1945.
