Hands shaking as they clumsily undo
Buttons, zippers, clasps
Articles of clothing discarded

Every word that passes between us
Hangs suspended in the air
Like dust motes
Only larger, more distinct
Each facet perfectly discernible
By its own beholder's eye

This was wrong
I could feel it
As my synapses fired
Unconsciously guiding my hands down his back
Arching mine

It feels wrong
But mostly it feels
So
right
Now.