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.