You were the first one to
take a true interest, that night—
not just drunk lips
clamoring for a mate
or clumsy hands
groping at my thicker bits
but prudent whispers,
foreplay,
misdirection,
that careful waltz.

You were the first one to
kiss me like you wanted nothing,
though we both knew
you needed everything.
I can still recall the distinct
flavor of your mouth
against mine,
how its absence left
my lips swollen,
that triumphant cigarette
a foreign shape as you
walked away.

You were the first one to
see what hid beneath those
winter layers. You were
impatient, ravenous,
but charming.
I was timid, awkward,
and terrified.
Don’t ever be sorry,
you said,
slipping into that
mischievous simper,
but you soon found more fertile soil.