In our eighth year as friends, we reached
a little further
between sheets,
bleached white and starched, in
the contrived ambiance
of a hotel room.
More cautious than nervous, we peeled
to bare flesh
and proceeded
slowly, carefully, as though
we might break our
well-seasoned past with
our fresh exploration.
Both of us knew what
we each always wanted—
youthful tensions,
now matured into
full-scale desire—
and pursued it,
dismissing our prior reserve
as unfounded.
Our hands,
warm beneath
cotton and denim,
explored contours, sought
softness
with increasing confidence.
As trepidations
diffused into
a scene of
two old friends, now
new young lovers,
she paused
at a joke made
in sharp contrast
to our actions.
We waited,
long enough to
inhale and
share a glance before
we both collapsed
in laughter.