From one reveal to the next
there is a hard inevitability
like the glint of the obsidian’s edge
slicing open my heart
like the glimmer of grandmother’s diamonds
on my littlest finger
I slide forward into new skin
the feel of yours against mine
mine suddenly awakened in a burst
my fingertips running over your scalp
lips hovering, almost grazing
and letting complete or nearly so strangers
see into my darkness, the conchoidal shimmer
of the edge slicing into my awareness
taking away the old, glitter running
down the waste chute, going into
the oblivion of what’s already done,
and when I open myself, let you see me,
I stand shivering, sometimes scared,
always better at the end
than when I first let the knife strike my skin.

We had chatted online
but meeting in person
electricity was in your eyes.
We talked of openness,
domination. I shared a writing,
your body involuntarily shuddered,
you laughed and revealed
your desire for surrender.
My pulse was faster, your eyes
were glimmering, unflinching,
the connection so clear,
and yet I hesitated to ask
what my desire was, for touch,
for body connection.

Now, as I write, I am glad I hesitated,
because, later, we text: you, I suppose,
in bed, me still in the hotel lobby, and
you ask for permission to pleasure yourself.
I instruct you on the proper form
for that request, and you comply,
your obedience delights me,
your brief surrender unfurls a whole landscape
that could, perhaps will be, between us in time.

My breath comes faster, my body
reacts, cock erect instantly.
My mind’s eye sees you naked,
because, of course, I had been,
even without meaning to,
mentally undressing you earlier
as you talk about your lingerie,
noticing your cleavage, your body’s outline.

I see in my imagination your face in ecstasy.
I am not sure which was more thrilling:
the idea that my thoughts
pushed you toward this need
or that you shared it with me
so openly and clearly. I cannot wait
for our next conversation.

you are in a difficult place
work and family, stress
our usual bedtime skin
instead is talking, editing

and sitting at supper
I say I feel raw, vulnerable
you tell me I am at that moment
fully authentic and masculine

later we rest against each other
skin to skin but not sexual
and something begins to move
through me, something very old

which at any other time would have
been terrifying and anxious
but now, your hand against my hip
is just something happening

I suggest we only date, for dinner,
conversation, walking, until your deadline;
for now, framing what we have this way
gives me new spaciousness

and I have no doubt, my Beloved
that when your deadline passes
the work is done, and you are satisfied
that we will find the spark

that is not gone but simply resting

We are texting most of the evening
politics, daily events, nothing deep
and I am thinking mostly
of the feel of your leg pressed
between mine, skin to skin

I am out of town working
you text me a picture
of yourself standing near
the door of my bedroom
my heart melts

We talk on the phone at length
your family, your work,
I tell you I want to take time
three days away, or four
and I hear desire in your voice

All my lovers interweave
in one evening, in different ways
energetic patterns embellishing
my otherwise solitary life
into deeper and deeper joy

I am made new each moment

I sit across from you
hearing your words
feeling something else old
slide beneath, rustling
in the bushes, and the old,
old impulse to try to fix
what can’t be rises in me,
I push it away, blue-gold threads
of energy tangled up between,
a useless thing, because of course
you are not broken, not in need
of any fixing, just momentarily
paused, contemplating your life
the butterfly perched briefly,
a bird in mid-flight;
leaves moving in the wind,
all things are just a ripple;
but if you would allow it,
friend I love, I would enclose you
and make a space where
for a flight’s-time, for the length
of the wind’s movement,
you could be at peace.

I will see you late tomorrow
sooner than usual after the last time
but still too long.
Sometimes it feels as if our work
toward re-creating this shared space
moves inches per decade
picking up boulders and trees
scouring the ground beneath clean.
Other times your skin is against mine
and there is no delay and no hurry;
for now, all I have in my mind
is when I next will hear your pleasure.

I have had you on my mind;
you sent me your hurt and anger
I want to honor that and hear you.
I want to change how we are together.
Old patterns to unravel for me,
for you only you can say.
But I so miss your skin,
the warmth of your smile,
your mouth on mine.
I could choose to focus
on complimentary wounds
to make this only about
how far there is to go still,
on the work we have to do
in the space between us.
I am not denying that is real.
But I want to choose
to think about our joy,
our laughter, our desire,
the brush of your hand
on my cock, or mine
on your nipples. The way
you tease apart everything
from my body to my words
and find inside their true essence.
You said comfort isn’t sexy. Oh,
my lover, you are not seeing
what comfort is for me;
your hands and your eyes,
your mouth and your heat
pressed against me.
If you were here now,
I would take your head in my hands
and kiss away your doubts
and let your tears flow as they must
until all that is left within us
is fire and golden sparks
and then, then, I would show you
what comfort truly is.

When we text I hear your voice
on the screen. I see your smile
elusive and gentle; I can almost
smell your hair fresh from the shower
you take when you arrive each time,
your shampoo by the tub edge.
Once, only once, I opened it
hoping to smell you, but of course
the smell of your hair is more
than anything that simple.
It is the weight of your head
on my shoulder, your arm across me,
your face against me, your body
relaxed in a way I envy. There are
so many ways you have been present
to me, but sweetheart, the past few weeks
your texts checking on me, knowing
I might as well be climbing
the jungle gym at my long-gone school
for all the maturity I have demonstrated,
your texts that never judge or chide
just ask me gently, are you, are you,
being the man you really wish to be?
The answer is, perhaps, sometimes,
when your head rests on my shoulder.
Then, yes, I will start finally becoming.