I do not own anything Star Trek.

Upon his return to New Vulcan

My mouth is full of my lover. He makes slow, tight circles with his hips, stroking my tongue.
It's a goodbye. We're close to his leaving.
And my mind refuses any future. This is the last moment ever.
He pulls out, gently nudges against my lips to be let back in.
My tears fall on his thighs and when he comes it mixes with the salt on my face.
I did not even know I wanted him. I took his word for it.

This body that I now adore with my lips, a long-ago, duplicate me wanted it.
When he talks about her, his other me, I hold my tongue.
He closes his eyes, so he can see beyond my face
to hers. She died over a century ago, leaving
me a gift and a torment through time and space. I dove in.
Trusting, as ever.

More open, compliant, submissive than ever.
He told me we were inescapable, convinced me of it.
Made me feel generous, being his new one. Absolving him in
acts he'd given up on, welcoming his papery skin, unexpected tongue.
I'll watch him disappear today, at least leaving
him the agony of desire, confluent with the lines on his face.

Lying on my breasts all night, or twisting in pleasure, his face
has become necessary. After today, I won't want to see it again, ever.
I tell myself this, all sense and truth leaving
me. I regret allowing it.
Prying with his tongue
He begged to be let in.

And I let him, and now he is in.
I should not want him, his hard cock, soft eyes, what he is, not at face
value, but as a legend. Stoic, brave, brilliant, speaking in a harsh and alien tongue.
An old man seduced me like no one has ever,
my body and heart soaked in his rapt attention. I bought it.
More damaging to me than her, he doesn't care what he did, and now what he is leaving.

Today, leaving.
My anger is sharp and metallic. He knows I'm drowning and I suspect in
his closed-off heart he regrets it.
Regrets me twice, as I lick down his body starting from his face
Erasing what was ever
here, with this last swab of tongue.

I can never have
a him, don't really want one.
Not in two lifetimes.

.....

.....

A sestina is a poem that contains 39 lines: 6 stanzas, 6 lines each, and a tercet or haiku at the end. The first six lines establish a set of end-words that are then used in prescribed orders in the following stanzas. The last 3 lines are bound by using these words in the stricter forms of the poem, or a haiku—like here—in the looser forms. But I am an amateur poet, and that's the extent of my knowledge of the form. This one is really loose.