It was almost romantic,
my hands wrapped around yours wrapped around my neck.
A little more and I’d have asked to feel your grip,
strong, tight, tighter, please—
but you’re unabashedly sweet and I let go.
At least bruise my skin
because the spasms under your kisses,
they aren’t enough anymore.
My wrists should be red, my throat should be sore,
your skin, purple, and your tongue, sending me to hell.

It was almost romantic,
the way we carefully scrutinized:
the lips, the eyes, the feather touches.
Leading you on playfully, thoughts getting heavier
as your hands kept on wandering further.
What will become of us when we do it;
when I grab your hand and take you to the bathroom,
when I demand—make love to me,
as though there were no tomorrows,
as though I wasn’t ever going to be yours again.

It was almost romantic,
how after the bodies we locked our fingers,
and quietly, barely above a whisper or two,
we talked.
Of me, my tendencies and urges,
tendencies to implode majestically,
urges to leave you in a grandiose manner—
Of you, your kindness and blind spots,
kindness never to fade in intensity,
blind spots a bad case of too much banter.
And you held me tight my love,
for I might’ve slipped away just then, thinking,

It wasn’t romantic