We met in the middle of a raging party, two writers casting lines, looks; suddenly alone in a room full of books, hot mouths melded like pavement and rain. We defected to my apartment and stripped our clothes like we'd just returned from war, tongues exploring terrain, salving wounds.
At dawn we read each other stories, played guitars and vinyl albums, danced with synchronized hips. You fused ingredients in my kitchen, magically concocting mimosas and quiche. It stormed all day, the world beyond the window white as a mast. Our talk began to tunnel. I told you of my last love, how it roughly reshaped my heart as an ocean does a stone. You'd been mangled in those same waves, said you were determined to stay on the shoreline with warm, dry feet. Night fell again on our entangled limbs.
The next day you posted a letter in the mail: More, please.
For a month we batted ideas back and forth, feasted on each other's words. When we'd meet, we'd claw back layers of coats, scarves, sweaters to the skin, sliding our bodies into aligned grooves. I dug through all your perverse pockets as you licked lewd thoughts out of my mouth that scorched the lips.
More communion, more food, more orgasms like the sensuous thunderbolt epiphanies of some insanely dirty god; everything but intercourse---we waded in the water a few times, but never dove, even with flames of wine swishing in our bellies and adrenaline searing our veins, the heat building and blinding. Finally, the situation came to a big, swollen head. We couldn't surrender any more body and soul without going deeper. If we were going to stay on the shore, it'd have to be two different shores. You retreated to your side of the harbour.
Weeks pass. The moon is waxing, slowly bulging with light that ignites small parcels of the darkside. My lust for you renews daily, softly piling upon itself like the drifting snow.
This is a message in a bottle: The sea is rough, but so is the shore; it's open to the winds and there's no company. It's cold out there. Please come back to bed.