22 April 2017

On Gray Manhattan Mornings

I wake and find her sleeping, folded around me, her smooth, lithe body a shell for mine. 

I drink her kisses long before the first cup of coffee and long after the gin runs dry . She still tastes like perfume and buttery champagne, even after a shared cigarette and restless hours. Our kisses are drowsy and tender, then fevered and urgent. She leaves me unsated, wanting more.

As we lie there exhausted and tangled, I realize, half-asleep, that we have yet to complicate each other. I have yet to ruin any endings or make my fell predictions. She has yet to voice her displeasure in my habits. No one has become disappointed. There are no cold silences. My hand still finds hers when we walk down the street in search of the next place to disappear into. Our conversations are still questions and answers that aren't laced with bitterness and accusation and the sting of broken promises and hearts. The possibility of not knowing her has not appeared on the horizon.

It's just before dawn when we fall back asleep.

We are still wine-fresh and writing a new mythology on damp sheets and rain-softened nights, in empty ballrooms and the backs of cabs; still finding each other anew on gray Manhattan mornings feral, undomesticated, and hungry for another night.