silk.

the way that his mouth
twisted against hers

told her that he wanted to be
anywhere but in the moment.

yet his body
moved into hers
flawlessly,
as if it had always been there

as if they were seeing each other
for the millionth time,

and he laughed, realizing
the ridiculousness of it all.

she looked at him as though
he was the most lovely thing she’d ever seen.

a thousand times
she told herself that
she was not bad,

but she was walking a line
and toeing it
less and less carefully.

selfishness flooded though her,
kicking his reservations
to the floor,
stomping on the respect
that grounded him
from touching her.

and they realized that
there’s always another line somewhere.

when he finally spoke,
he spoke as if
he was talking
through a tin can
and string,

grainy and mottled
strained with brooding guilt.

he mumbled,
“can’t... wrong...if only”

but his words were
underwater echoes
vibrating against her brain

she wanted to scream
but instead she said nothing.

she breathed
hot air
against his neck,
rejecting his requests of pause.

she touched him,
her fingers grazed his side
grazed the flat, smooth
skin of his stomach,
creating static movements
under the covers.

a fog of memory.  unreal.
unreachable.  

yet, there he was,

more clear, more real than anyone she’d ever known.

all the “no’s” disappeared
into the sheets,
quietly overturned
by their undeniable 
attraction.
he unraveled her -

carefully stripping
off the layers
that made her feel
like she was good.
raw and uncertain,
she sank into his hands.

for the moment, when
his mouth twisted against hers, she pretended it moved like silk.

she pretended they
were threaded together

by something
bigger
than they really were. 

like all the bad
in the world was good.

good enough
to keep moving
against each other
in that hungry way:

silk. 

soft, delicate,
fine enough to tear -- and so they did.