bedroom eyes, water, piano, Henry Miller, e.e. cummings, your bedroom, sitting in a Corner Bakery in Chicago with the waiter who stole Al Pacino's young face, sitting on your lap, bananas, your body, your warmth, oral sex, telephone calls in the early morning, reading you my poetry, you play your guitar for me, Mason Park (and you asked if you could kiss me now), first kiss, I kissed your eyelids your shoulders your chest your stomach your neck your mouth, it's dark and you're on your knees, I unbutton your jeans, I love you

I've grown up for monday. You said I love you I love you I love you. Blowjobs and a stomachache, Lou Reed singing Coney Island Baby, the body beats of you and me. I look at you, I see the space between your shoulder blades; it reminds me of a violin. Somehow (I don't know why) I remember the ants making ribbons in the kitchen cupboard this morning, around the honey, while I read Henry Miller's Big Sur to swim in that paradise, maybe some fruit for you and me. We awoke from the sweat and kissing and you played guitar while your shirt covered the lamplight. Half the world sang a song; the other half, its eyes on you, was me, wanting to bury myself into you, if I only could. It seemed so easy. Stir me around like milk for coffee skin. I was once 1:00 (as were you), now we are 11:00, soon to be 2:00. After I am in my room hugging my knees, smelling of home, of you. Every second passes, bruised. Just look at the moon, I thought. I can see so clearly now! She smiles through the blinds. She has been for seventeen years.