Mornings were never lost on us. Especially spring mornings. Early. In our
reverie. Early in the day when poetry made trees greener than the day
before. And grass more springy and fuller and richer seeming. More than
loam. And the beauty of the sky was crystal fragrance. As has never been
before. And the joy at ties of rainbows or chandelier dawns was that they
were shared together. And we touched up in our morning bed.
hands and found each other, close and closer still. Not had to sail the
world at all, after the moment we first met and first were born.
We slept naked on these still cool mornings. Light came under the partly
drawn shades of white. The cars passed by singly and every so often. This
was a small town. This was a town that had survived a harsh cold winter.
It had survived for this moment, as day touched earth, as we touched each
We were our morning fields, and after we came back to our bed,
after the bathroom, we held each other as though we were morning lights.
All the ones that had come before and all the ones that had come since.
And if we sexed, it was ballet, and it was sighs far more than size, and
it was hands that knew the temperature of a pulse, that knew the
commingled rhythms of hearts.
And we loved because we were lovely, and if
we were not models for Vogue or GQ, we were perfection for ourselves, and
our legs touched and our legs leaf folded together and we fell into the
graciousness of each other’s arms. And we spotlighted each other’s eyes
soft and sleep filled still, with our own. We were nothing without each
As our penises hardened, and our balls tightened. We were envelopes of
love for each other and of each other still.
Some people wait for email
or the post or a phone ringing or a door bell chiming and they wait a
long long time. Maybe for all of their days. We speak our love songs and
our words are wind chimes and telephone bells. We touch to each other’s
chest and play with each other’s nipples, hardening them as much as our
cocks, and the phone is answered, the mail is delivered.
We wish never to leave this age.
We wish never to go to classes or take
tests or have lunch or dinner. We wish to be young forever and vow it so.
Our hair is long and our jaws are slender and our muscles are slightly
delineated and we are making love now, as Heaven makes the sun outside
our dorm window. Peerless sunshine, slanting through the shades. Casting
him, my love, in light and shadow as strawberry color somehow, and we
hold and are together.
Nothing in the world will split us apart. We have
counted each other’s cells. We have paced the thoughts in the topography
of each other’s brains so brazenly, so carefully, so artfully, that we
know the very grooves of each other’s brain.
We remember childhood together. We remember the first time we saw each
other in the seventh grade and knew we were destined forever, blond and
blond, and hopeless with Math, each, and terrified of bullies.
the days took us and protected us and we were the days, as the calendar
says March fifteenth, we are March fifteenth, we are the seasons. We
embroider the sky with fleece and bleach up the blue to just the perfect
shade on the palette of the sky. We are the warm eggs of our testicles.
Just as we are the warm eggs and toast and bacon, succulent, food on
morning breakfast tables.
We are the runnings in the dorm halls now. We are the ringing radio
clocks. We are the rock music turned on and turned on loudly. We are the
coolness of life. And we hold each other’s cock as we have for so many
years since the eighth grade when he said can we please try this? don’t
hate me for it…. and we have been bulwark and snow and shifting autumns,
and we have been the aroma of Number two pencils and Blue Horse notebooks
and the cold air of d**g stores and the sharp acrid smell of paper back
books there that soaked up medicine smells and made us always remember
that aroma from childhood, even now, when we read books.
And books we read, my God, name books we have not read, name books that
have not had our hearts encapsulated in them, our minds enchanted by
them, and holding hands with invincible invisible writers, with long ago
writers, we found ourselves, for we are imagination come into reality and
we are the locked dorm room door and we explore as we physically devour
with our hands and our mouths the constant virgin flesh of one another,
as our eyes devour the virgin white pages and black ink words of books,
and we are so giddily in love.
We have not, since we first saw each other, been lonely, though god knows
we’ve been sad often enough, when we have to be apart, when we have to
pretend we are not lovers. The pure and insoluble ache of not being able
to hold hands when our hands crave the other’s. In the lunch room or in
class. Boys and girls hold hands and laugh together and kiss sometimes on
the quad and sit under the campus trees and cuddle, and it saddens us we
are not too able to do that.
Our dirty little secret, that started the
sex play from a limerick perhaps and such fumbling and awkwardness and
the sad fact our penises would go hard when we were in our rooms at our
homes, thinking of each other but not when we were with each
other–Embarrassment, the early years.
We love in secret and we love in shadow but we love and we are making
each other cum now and we want each other to shoot in our mouths, and we
want the day to start with the liquid from the deepest parts of us that
have been harvesting it all night as we slept close in each other’s
arms, as we dreamed away from each other, and our bodies planning to come
tomorrow, to come in a few hours, to come at sun rise, to come a minute
from now, to come now, and to feel his seed in my mouth, to drink the
over spill of him and he the same for my over spill.
And out side someone
is revving up his motorcycle, gunning it over and again, so he can tell
the world what a big dick he owns, as hunters (or as we call them most
disrespectfully, hunners) shoot a****ls and birds, with their prosthetic
penises, which gives them big dicks as well apparently.
We have come equipped with ours, and there is nothing in the world wrong
or hurtful or lonely or crippled and we are narcissistic, not of our
selves, but of each other, for as long as we two are one, then morning
will never die and will never melt into afternoon.
It will always be only
afternoon and night for temporaries, because when we come back to the
dorm after classes or see each other at lunch, in our eyes there are the
panes of morning and there are the hills of fantasy come true in his
brown eyes and my blue. He tells me I have the bluest sea in mine. I tell
him he has the most beautiful tallest mountains of brown in his.
are together because the world does not want man to kill himself yet. The
world does not want religion or politics or just plain madness to take
over and strangle life on the planet, and thus there are we, and if we
don’t know to use our magical powers for others, instead of just for
each other, give us time. We are still college sophomores. Even we have
to learn how to grow and think deeper and the need for depth and he plays
with my buttocks and reminds me I am naked, as I play with his and remind
him he is naked.
We wear clothes of the other. It is as though we have exchanged each
other’s flesh and mind and body and soul, as though we love each other
with such an intensity that we give everything we have to each other. We
relinquish every cell, every organ, every molecule to the other, and how
then could we be narcissistic at all, I ask you?
The motorcycle still revs, the cyclist getting his dick inflated as if by
an air machine.
The dorm raises holy hell of voices and shouts and laughs
and music playing, and they try to damage the air around us with the din,
and with the stupid words and the stupid music of some sort in order to
fool the gears of their brains that they are really and truly alive and
aware of sentience. We however know otherwise.
In a few minutes, we will have to get up and shower, not together, we
share a bathroom with another room, and dress and hold one last time and
then walk down the hall of oblivion and out the door to infinity where we
will not see each other for an entire two hours–god, how do we stand
it?, how do we survive being under the ocean of not having our lungs and
heart and bodies and eyes and nose with us all that time.
We live the
other. We exist the other. And the last thing we do before we leave the
room, after we dress, embrace, before we gather our books to head out to
that sea of not him, we tickle each other silly.
And some day we will have more than whole weekends to ourselves. We will
have banished the whole grimy sad horrific world around us, the world
made by idiots and lunatics and monsters, and we will figure out how to
make spring last forever and love to be not just a gift between the two
of us, for we love this lonely world of lonely people, for we know deep
inside how they feel, we remember back when, and also, though we’ve not
talked about this very much if at all, we can’t get close enough to each
other, there is a self that possesses each one of us, and refuses to let
us break free from it.
We will spend our lives trying, but this membrane
will be forever separating us, closer we, than anyone else, and now he
bending over to get out of bed, I touch his bumpy arching spinal column
as he sighs so sexily and he reaches back his gentle soft warm hand and
touches my left leg, high on my thigh and I harden, as he turns his face
to me, says I love you and I lean up to kiss his lips and then he stands,
unwilling to go, and walks to the bathroom, first knocking on the door,
then going inside.
I watch him naked. I see him naked.
And I know we are each other’s and each the other and how tremendously
lucky we are. And I hear the sun rising more. Rise away and make a late
afternoon sprinkle of rain, warm and friendly and not too wet, so we can
run through it back to our dorm, maybe hand in hand if we find bravery
inside us. The shower is running.
The times we have showered together, we
hold and softly wipe with soap and cloth each other in the tingly water
flow, and our dicks get big, touching tip to tip, and we jack standing up
against each other, hands on each other, outlining our forever new
bodies, my head on his chest sometimes, his on mine, lusty love
supporting sighs, and we have our own penises that kill no a****ls or
birds, that rev no motorcycle engines, that are used only to make two
human beings more in love with each other, not with ourselves, but with
each other, than ever before, and I think, lying there, stroking my again
hard on that is wet still from his mouth, what in the name of god is
wrong with that?
The sun paints the day.
Life is good. It will get even better.