Your knee. That’s what I’ll remember most, prostrate next to
you, reaching backwards, circling it with my blind right hand. Your skin is
white marblestone smooth, your knee the kitchen counter in a mansion I’m not
sure I belong in.
You are older, classy, not quite Eastern European, not quite
Middle Eastern, plump olive eyes set against a Siberian landscape. Your simple
dress intends to disguise your royal provenance, but you slip out of heels and
approach with a grace that requires training. Years of careful measurements take time to unwind, and I keep circling your knee to see if I can start again.
An hour ago, you placed one hand on my shoulder and one on
my chest, as if you were concerned your weight would be a nuisance. When I
kissed your earlobe, you moved your earring to make a path for my tongue. Each movement
betrays a lifetime of dignified behavior, thinking of others, being
presentable. I do the best I can to turn back the clock, remind you of when you
acted out of turn.
In the shadows, we time-travel together, and I see your younger self in the contours of your face, imagining all the moments I
missed, and the other selves within you, waiting to emerge. You look back, smile, and remind me the proper time is now.
MMR (2019)
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