Their backs heavy with the burden of one more evening shared without knowing each other's names. Smoke from their cigarillos billowing thin, floating in the room like ghostprint, steam from the carcass of an affair. A small lightbulb and two shadows barely moving. We're talking two boys, two bodies on the bed. Swimming. Sinking. Sailing. The faucet drips faster than the wall clock ticks. I count. one drip, two drips There are too many things I want to ask him. But after *** there is only endless pause. He lies there with his belly rising and falling. I time my breaths so that his stomach is up when mine is down three drips, four drips On the bathroom mirror there's half a fingerprint. I wonder if someone had wiped the other half. or whoever left it was incomplete. five drips, six drips I like the sounds you bring out in me. The way I'm primal with you. A creature. An animal enduring the whiplash of almost having all of you, and all of this, whatever it is. seven drips, eight drips I used to think we have *** because we like the anguish of fleeting ****** contact. But now I understand. There is a sacredness to the way we don't want to acquire each other. That the passion burns in a vacuum, away from distinction, from names. I'd want more soon. I know myself. nine drips, ten drips But for now, this will do. I twist the faucet close. And wipe the rest of the fingerprint.