We’ve been fumbling
with each other’s bodies
in the dark for months.
Suffice it to say
I’ve only known you
as an assemblage—
your hard chest, your
rough, calloused fingers, your
firm buttocks, your
erect cock.
You said you’ve always liked me
but I believe otherwise.
You bend me over and
it fills me with ease and
unease. You’ve tasted my
mound, I’ve sucked your
fingers dry, you’ve
charted the geography of
my body with your
mouth, but I still cannot trust
your disembodied voice
in these pitch-black rooms.
Perhaps I love you.
Perhaps this is all desiderium.
Perhaps I am fated
to keep desiring you
with these light years
of distance between us.
We are beholden by the allure
of promises. We are bound
by these violent gestures.
They say that the only way
to break this spell is
through repetition, and so
I oblige. I’m no longer afraid
to latch onto your image
even though it’s now on the verge
of disappearance.
Listen: I may or may not
love you. I have no answers
for that. We have always been
ensconced in the dark.
I cannot wait to be free
from you. I cannot wait
to see you in the sun.
I listened to this playlist while writing this poem.