that kind of perfection
cannot be rehearsed.
it has to be instinctive.
the way your shoulders
lean into him
it is clear
that he is not pulling you closer
with his arm
but rather draping it
around the back of your neck
like a scarf.
your hands
could be reaching for his
but instead
they tighten into fists
not resisting
but hungrily bracing
for the kiss
which you allow
to tilt your head back
at an angle that suggests
that you are willingly overpowered.
your eyes
could be clenched shut
but through your long lashes
you gaze unfocused
beyond your two dimensions
into the dark paralysis
of my lust.
Paul David Mena
15 January, 1997
Cambridge, MA
