by Ryan Clark
Night, thick with humidity,
hangs heavy as I chase you,
and you snicker, lunging,
just out of reach.
Main Street is ours.
I grasp at air, and I’m left
with the scent of your hair,
sweet like lilac, filling me up
with purpose and hope.
The chase continues.
You laugh, low and simmering,
urging me without words to catch
you, to wrap you up and keep you
here, with me, in my world.
A green bench beckons.
You lie down, out of breath, cheeks
flushed rose, you stretch out on
the green bench, tan bare limbs
dangling off its arms. You look up.
Under the soft amber glow of
a street lamp, your lips curl,
smiling, showing what you
have in mind.
You pull me on top, and your mouth
finds my own, the only sound now
the far-away cicadas chirping.
My hands find your curves.
My lips find a home in your neck.
And as your legs wrap around me
I lift up your T-shirt to kiss your
stomach. I run my fingers up your
thigh and take in your perfume.
You smell like honeysuckle.
Stillness around us, like a
canvas for excitement, and the
shops, long closed for the day,
settle in to watch our escapades.
Ahead, a yellow streetlight blinks.
But we disregard – caution isn’t
paid by college kids at 3 a.m., not when
the night is ours, not when the world
is ours. I feel your hands on me.
You guide my hips to fit into your own.
I feel our limbs, climbing on
and up and over. I pull you closer,
but in one motion you push me back,
away, to the ground. Hard.
Quickly, you’re off again.
Down the lonely street, into darkness.
I hear your footfalls on pavement. And
you look back to see if I’m giving chase.
But you don’t have to.
Of course I’ll follow.
I always do.