by smealek

Dimly, lit room: staircase, door on the right,

seven steps leading up, seven steps leading down,

handrails gone rusty, cigar papers exploited,

fags–natural companions–, odious walls, and

urine, discharged corners.

 

He sits caressing her; she sits receiving him.

Unanimously, it is no fun,

Lets make it fun.

Let him put a touch of his fingertip

against her concealed lips; let him feel

the shape of her concealments. At first, it is

dry–what a startled mess; no secretions.

With continued lack of proficiency,

lacking the correct rhythms and hither,

unassured lack of…–“where is the consistency.”

she thinks; she receives; but she loves,

how she loves to discover how untrained her

found hero advances

–founded hero yet still capable, impresses.

 

“Continue to play with me: touch this

like this.” She says, “I think I like that.

Do you like that?”

Murmuring in the dark mossy holly. A section

of the concrete hardness,

–the unlikeliest friendship roams–

these two thrill seekers find unexpected

hours spent on each other.

“How much time has passed?” she asks,

“Because it is too late, and I,

truly,

 

I want to stay,

but I must go. Will you,

I,–promise me,

tomorrow you will see me?”

she asked, and waited a while.

He then cooly nodded, and added

“tomorrow I’ll surprise you”.

They smiled earnestly in close encounter–

feeling each other’s breath upon the other.

Together,

they conquered the dimly, lit room,

exited triumphantly, and cheered each other.

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