"I just want to have sex", you said.
An unexpected non-sequitur.
We had been sipping tea or coffee or something.
We had been reminiscing about the old street,
Back when none of us were single.
"yeah, I miss it, too", I said.
"No. I mean right now", you corrected.
As I turned to see your face, it betrayed little.
Impassive, but alert.
Warm, but not intimate.
No passion.
I was willing, but remember:
this never happened.
Something seemed wrong about it,
But was there any harm?
I asked if I could think about it.
You thought about it, too, as we watched a movie.
Halfway through some Ridley Scott epic, we held each other.
We touch-explored and memory only tells me this is true:
With no further reason beyond the will to be,
I soon lay naked there with you.
It wasn't love but, then again…
This never happened.
Awkward, at first, we found our place,
Our touch and pull, our rhythm and pace.
"no kissing", you admonished, speaking only that.
Though I rest spent and full inside you,
That was your concern.
Too personal.
Too intimate.
We held each other for a while, you left within the hour,
Saying, "this never happened".
And my only thought,
My only answer to you,
Was a solemn confirmation,
That nothing could be more true.