Seven Hours

November 14th is three months prior to Cupid’s Day.
though we found Cupid long, long ago with your initials engraved in the golden tip
that drew my love like blood.
My ever changing initials stamped into a matching golden tip that struck you.
Saturday was the preface to walking into a sanctuary of a relationship.
I was enamored as Hell. Hammered by the rains of simple love that made me
thrive.
Saturday, November 14th, you gave me my virginity though some would say you took it.
Doused by Eros, we fumbled over zippers, chasing after one another’s heat
until, until we came across just what it was that got you & I
here.
To make me feel pure when all I’d ever been was ruined.
Chameleon clouds to my skin, you sifted through the
dead conversations, the aging and aching fantasies through the growing space between my legs.
November 14th, a week before you’re old.
A day where we undeniably grew through lives of
careers and retirements as the
hours
passed us by.
We became human in that room.
Then into adults simultaneously imitating functions of infant brains as we came to find our place among one another.
This is not tainted, distasteful obscenity.
This is clean preaching.

d.r. 11.17.15