I met him in the night.
A Gayborhood local
told me he was from Venezuela, but didn’t have to,
his accent, so beautiful with its deep grit and softness,
twang and lisp.
I already knew, he didn’t have to tell me.
He bought me drinks, and watched
me and only me,
as I bit from the fruit of his garden.
He invited me to an afterparty, I didn’t know
him, but we went through alleys,
dampened by the heat of bodies
melding to the brick walls, glistening
in the streetlights and nightlife. Unknown lips
pressed and held, to stay, not to
part. It was
beautiful.
Within the alley was
our destination: underground. It was
a luscious venue, crowded, exuberant and whimsy.
Velvet covered the walls, and he brought me more drinks.
I finished them all.
I remember
locking lips with a stranger, and how
it hurt.
He was warm and sweaty, and
smelled of Burberry and whiskey,
his stubble left
my face burning.
He grabbed my hand, and led me to
the bathroom, then I woke up
in his bed.
I remembered
his husband’s name, and that
he lived in Caracas, that
we had ***, and took
a shower together, that
his mother, dying from leukemia,
slept upstairs, unknowing.
I wept
in a stranger’s arms,
cradled by their tiny physique.
I wept
for our beloveds.
**** In no way am I trying to romanticize adultery ****
This is something that broke my relationship for a little while, everything is back together now.
