Author's Note: Drew/Bianca. Enjoy. Please don't forget to review.

I.

The accidental afternoon was made of

Dry hours and wet walls

Damp hair and sheets

Cool cotton pillows and skin

Sweat and lips gluing their bodies together.

It was a byproduct of the heat

And being overheated.

Boiling blood, burning bodies,

Fire from the fingertips,

Flesh like a fever.

Frenzied tongues lapping the sweat and sweet

Off each other

With their wet, mapping mouths.

II.

But it was an accident, purely an accident;

A real, true, denied, heartfelt accident.

A lying accident,

Because how could it be the truth?

How could any real feeling emerge

From the fumes of used coffee grounds, broken egg shells,

Emerging from the kitchenette trash down the hall?

Or any real poetry or aria

Be heard among the fumbling, gasping, stroking, dancing, falling?

III.

Of course not, they tell themselves.

Something was not made between the sheets of her bed.

Just taken.

Though he's having a hard time reconciling

The feeling that he has lost something

When he feels so full inside.

IV.

How could something have been made

From the ripples of their sheets and bodies?

Salty taste and penetrating feel

Of her on his lips

Him on her hips.

Currents pulsing at their fingertips

Give them life.

Their fingers tip their brains off to what their bodies

Are doing without saying.

V.

Making lovemaking

VI.

From a throaty moan and a quick breath

A shudder and a frenzied cry

Then the cliché cigarette

She strikes the match

Lies back against the pillows

Her hair curling around her head like the smoky halos

She blows in his face.

She likes the 100s, and it's an old tease:

"I'll have a Marlboro, and you can have me."

VII.

Body, blood, burn, and boil

The recipe for making lovemaking.