Your body tenses when he enters, still
like a doll stiff in your chair,
now leaning back, looking down
and not up, reading the same
eight or nine or ten words of your book
over again, forgotten again,
syllables jumping from tongue to mouth
and out like something is sleeping
and if you're too loud it's gone.
And he, excited,
leaning in from the doorway,
sees the salty taste of your skin
and his lips pressed against your body,
And you: you want to leap up,
grab him, tear him down
into the sheets
the page of your book turned
to lastnight
and his hands,
his hands
running over your hips
taking the black laced piece
you picked for him, pulling it
down your legs and off,
lost in your bed,
the soft lines of your bodies
rising and falling in the half-darkness,
making new shapes from silhouettes.

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