Apogee

I usually make the first move. Nuzzle the neck. Exhale, slightly-heavy. Lips graze. Bite down on the collar bone. Slip my hand up the throat. Make it impossible for mouth to not move to meet mouth. Make it the only thing either of us can think about. Impossible for eye to eye contact to not end in eruption-collision. But you were different. Ache. Throb. Ache. We sat still. Ache. Throb. Ache. I held your hand. Fingers laced in front of our faces. Fingers tracing fingers in front of our faces. Slow. Too steady. Burning. Burning. Timing-protracted. Ache. Throb. Ache. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Hold. Hold. Hold. And nothing. Breath hitched in throat. And nothing. Nothing. Always nothing. My hand squeezed yours in defeat. Quick pressure. Stalemate-resignation. I pulled back. Ready to take my loss. And just as I reached the edge of out-of-your-reach, your hand found the back of my neck. Your mouth meeting mine in starvation. Pressing. Scrambling. Fervent. It was fevered pulse of waiting. Violent rush of can’t-get-enough. It was hands and skin and teeth to teeth. Scratching, grasping. Graceful lacking. Heat-swelling. Buzzing relief of culmination. It was feed-me-full. Satiate. Let you mine the truth from my mouth.