You almost miss it when that first drop of perspiration escapes and runs down the jut of collar bone, but you catch it with your tongue when it reaches his shoulder, and you find yourself biting against the dark inked patterns there which you find absurd, the way he is absurdity and challenge and all things which are want in this world.
He does not belong to you, no more than you belong to him, and that is as close to perfection as this night is ever meant to be. You take it for what it is, you take it with greedy fingers which pull and dig and push against and into that hidden wanton ring of muscle that arches his back and opens him up.
His hair is a tangled mess, curling against flush and freckles that may have seemed to you endearing and boyish if you weren't fucking him slow and angry, if your fingernails weren't drawing beads of blood along the vulnerable inside of parted thighs.
In the morning, you will never speak about this, and all things will move forward. For now, his moans and pants and the painful dig of his heel into the dip of your lower back are pockets of time, full of pause and promise, but pass on just the same.
