Linted Seams

I bet you don’t even remember
that weekend in Southend
just the four of us
picking our way over pebbled beaches
laughing knowingly as the wind cut into us
out where the water line met the shore
and rocks blotted the view
As soon as the coast was clear
he slipped his number into my hand
and I pushed it down into the depth of my coat pocket
that secret place of linted seams
while he whispered anxiously into my ear,
as if into the apex of a conch shell
“call me….”
I felt…
his lips brushing my neck
his palm cupping my elbow
my heart racing
fear crossing my face
like a cloud obscuring the sun
and I moved through the remainder of the weekend
like some extra in a low budget movie
awkward,
unsure of my best angle
relieved to be returning home with you
complete with all our baggage

Intime

Sometimes, if I concentrate hard enough
I can still imagine the pressure of your lips on mine
that fingertip search
conducted down the curve of my spine
and the weight of your body
anchoring me to a sea of bedding
as if to hold me there forever
in time