At first, there would be sin.
We’d sing praises for our bodies,
the ripple of touch, the blushed skin,
the sinuous angles
we move within,
testing the sinew between muscle
and bone, rising
A single touch, a singe,
a fire uprising, your grasp
on my hips, a rosin,
stronger than absinthe, perusing each inch of my body
surprisingly, gently, insinuating
more. Love, perhaps. But,
your signs. You didn’t stick around
to even see morning. I’ve not seen you
And, now, I’ve written a poem
about a mistaken moment of sincerity.
How embarrassing. I feel sick.