When you meet my eyes for the first time,
trying to reach you across the twelve stools between us,
I won't be expecting it at all.
I may even look away after trying so hard to make contact,
depending on how steadily and heavily I've been poisoning myself tonight.
I love playing the eye game, especially with you,
but I'm kinda rusty these days,
so you might have to be slightly aggressive in the beginning
if you want.
Eventually the curiosity of what I'm thinking will crop up,
maybe right at the beginning,
maybe when I work up the audacity to come talk to you,
maybe when you tell me to shut up and kiss you already.
Or it might be one of those rare occasions with just the right mix of ***** and testosterone when I don't second guess myself.
Regardless, eventually you'll want to know what's going on up here.
It's pretty simple really, no big mystery, even if
I don't talk about myself much in person.
To be sure, I want to know what you taste like,
how you look without make up,
under a shower,
in a bed.
I want to know what it will be like to strip clothes from your body,
as an artist must feel uncovering a work of hidden beauty,
as a madman must when he regains himself,
as Rumi must have in his garden.
Images diverge from there, with equal portions half and half,
your hand around my waist as I lift your skirt in the bathroom,
and reading by lamplight to you a chapter from Divisadero.
You're looking at me with that same appraising gaze I know so well,
and you can be **** sure I'm wondering whether you'd like me to pull your hair, the same as you wondering if I like to be bitten.
You see, there is no longer any separation for me,
between closeness, passion, or ecstasy.
When we progress to the point,
when I finally get your hint,
that I don't have to try so hard,
I've already decided whether I'll take the plunge to your soul or not.