I don't think he's ever kissed a woman before.
And, now, he's kissing two. No, wait, just one. But which one?
His lips are on mine, yet I cannot say whether he's kissing me or kissing her. I long to know whether he's kissing the me they see or the me that I am.
There's a tongue, now. He's bolder than I thought. It burrows into me like a maggot on a wound.
The wound he never saw. The fresh scar, that's still red and tender. It's on my other arm, the one he didn't brush against.
It's a beautiful maggot. I can taste it. I can smell it. There's a flinty scent about him, as if someone's nervously about to commit arson.
Then, I feel that nervousness. It is not my own. He's shaking as he backs away, thinking he has wronged me in some fantastic way.
I want more. Comfort. Attention. Companionship.
He begins to stutter, and his poetic grace is lost.
Yet I speak, "Would you save me?"
Eff moves in once more, and I know now that it's me he kisses. Eyes I want to see again are closed. Pools of blue that would cry for me, regardless of whether there were stars out.
Behind us, a shadow of me is angry. She's jealous.