Parisian air slaps your thighs, the river Seine ripples down your chest hair as you pull yourself up out of the water—just for a moment–to beckon me in. But my head is covered by a mask, with only the slits for eyes that your kisses opened like slashes to my face earlier. You said, “Jump in” but I can’t see color. I can’t tell where the shore begins and where the water plunges me into the depths that you’re floating in. You said, “Grab me my clothes and underwear and let’s run through traffic–the city is fucking electric”. But I can’t make heads or tails between streetlights and headlights and I don’t think spilling blood from my blind, incapable heart all over the pavement is a way to make this date sexy. If the city is electric, don’t take this lightning rod for sorrow along, you’ll electrocute yourself and fall motionless on the riverbank like me. I said “Enjoy your rush to the daytime, I’m in perpetual night.”
He put on his boxers and he laid behind me, his breath like the hot energy of a thousand people rushing by in an instant as he let it linger on my neck. And he wrapped his legs and his arms around me and his limbs felt like taxis, placing me out of control, in motion. He said,
“My blood burns bright for you. You’re in your night, not the real night. Join me.”
And suddenly, I feel sidewalks under my feet and I can see the lights from cafes illuminating the line between their door and the wake of your footsteps I follow avidly after. I walked over an open grate and blew away like a billowy, bust of a person at the burst of air. But you grabbed me, swallowed all that air and breathed it into my lungs with a kiss. My mask, it sheds: these feelings, they rescue me from midnight mode. My hand grazes yours and we run down rues,
as the lights of the night combust my heart in one gigantic bang, swallowing all of their energy into it. I can see color. Intersections dazzle with a sweltering brightness as they misdirect all sorts of signals my way.
Caution. Stop. Fucking Go Already.
But trust is yours, as I let your scent lead me. It’s a scent synonymous with the typhoon of tantalizing tastes of the streets that tingle my tongue in all the moments our mouths meet in back alleys you have me pressed against. Each step feels like a thrust into the future–to thrusts in our bed; but I just want to remember these first moments, of what it felt like to be free again.
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