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.
