A Place Meant for Intimacy

An Augustal Autumn.
In the city, it’s hot. hot. hot.

And it’s hot on your lap
Splayed out as a thing imploring
As your fingers explore what is open and given you
With no conditions.

Hips raised and feeling your heat on my breasts,
I am desirous of release like the accidental brush of
cold metal on the inner arm
On a stifling day such as this.
It’s molten, this –
quivering awareness of you.

As your palm makes first contact,
I hiss. I fall more deeply.
I belong here, on your lap
It’s mine, it’s my home.

I want you to mark me,
Your ownership on delicate flesh.
You don’t need to ask.
What do you take that
I am unwilling to bestow?

What do I ask that
I am unafraid to receive?

A desire for your strength.
Starved, trepid, instead
I seek the lesser
and infinitely more attainable.

The palpability of being curled in your lap,
of being a little thing, desiring your mercy.

A desire for your shelter.
Of things that are constant.
Things no one can promise
For longer than an affair, an hour, a week, a month,
a life.

I breathe. I suck in new air.
I steady, ready myself.
I receive what I can tolerate.

The sting of your palm
in a place meant for intimacy.