In bed where A. and I made sweet love hours ago. Days after reunion, after half a decade. He seeks my eyes without hesitation, holds my gaze. Goes straight down because he's come and I'm so close. We agree that last time, 7 years ago, we neither felt this way. So, A. calls me, he's touring, where in the world am I? I bring him home and still want to kiss him, so I bring him home again. Driving fast, he caresses my hair while I labour to stay in my lane. I want to close my eyes. I loved watching him play that kit, standing side-stage, tour girlfriend, pit-stop love. Leaving stage he walks straight over and puts his arm around me: I nuzzle his sweaty neck. He says: the boys on the bus were taken by you. And he holds my hand. And cuddles me in my sleep. Without hesitation. Waiting for the taxi he insists we stay in touch, but lets me down easily over the following weeks. He made me feel quite wonderful and pretty and sweet and all those things I try not to feel too often because I'm too busy trying to be tough.
Updated June 2024 | Acknowledgements | Copyright ©1998-2024 Risa Horowitz