In Traffic

In that moment, I felt the realness of him. The gravity well of his physicality. It arrived bearing undertones of salt and warm hidden skin. It anchored in the complication of his features and the unfamiliar cadence of his voice.

I felt the almost-kiss. The heat of his breath upon my upper lip. The space between us starved of oxygen. The urge transmitted through the tips of fingers after words become too small, too poor, to unfit to bear the weight of want.

And then the pull. The grasp that brooks no refusal.  The distance annihilated in the time it takes to swallow doubt and hold it down in the belly, its vertigo smeared against the walls of touch.

It was the moment of no return. The place where clothes get shed without caution, where fastenings are fumbled, where impediments are torn, because all I want is the terrible proof of the fuck. The abject reduction of everything down to that singular moment of penetration. Only then did I understand that I’d been naked all along, really, and weeping wet forever, too.

A car’s horn broke the spell, and it was gone.  The phantasms of desire sink back into their shadowed corners and their muttered, bitter longings.