We Met Beneath the Moon

She means to ask my name,
but ends up tracing the outline of my mouth
with her clumsy fingers
She’s been kissing girls all night,
and I’d hoped it was all for show
Just didn’t know until that moment
She’s gone before the explanation comes
Drunk and unaware? Or just too embarrassed to stay?
Only one way to be sure
So she’s back-bound in her skirt
on that starlit trampoline
And timing is my oldest friend;
a map of razorblade scars, finally fading
as each new inch of me is slowly introduced
to depths she wasn’t aware she even had
She’s begging me to call in a day or two
And, of course, I intend to,
but am ever closer as her insecurity pleads
So I just listen to the sound of her voice;
feeling her musical form take to my rhythm
A melody too intimate to share with the world
She’s pressing my head to her chest
when the crest of her wave collapses
Her little fingers are possessive of mine,
as her thighs force my hand
to sign her insides
I kiss her deep and help her back on her feet
She quickly gives up on the idea
of ever finding her patterned panties
I slide them into her purse a few moments later
She has no chance to notice,
instead speaking that line yet again:
“Please call me.”
And here I remember that she wants to believe
in all that I could turn out to be,
but doesn’t yet have any idea who I actually am
I smile at the idea of surpassing her standards
in some slightly more sober tomorrow
“You really have nothing to worry about.”
I’m not even sure she heard me say it
Always too quiet when I’m falling too fast
“Seriously though, what is your name?”
She wasn’t even ashamed to ask,
and I liked that
“Tell you what…
Figure that out by the time I call,
and dinner’s on me. Deal?”
She nods her acceptance of my terms
The drive home was sublime,
and that big bed was waiting
Not to worry though, sir
It won’t be lonely much longer

Poetry from The Astrals by Shane Windham
E-book and paperback now on Amazon.com

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