After fucking you’d say, “Oh my God” every time. A rhythm I thought I’d never get tired of. But, oh my god, how you came to bore me with that.
We started at a double feature in the Castro, god, we were the only straight folks that night. Burt Lancaster and Barbara Stanwyk. It smelled like sex. Your hand so close. We had Chinese or Thai. You wanted to leave your girlfriend, remember, or she wanted to leave you.
You were with me then, crawling up out of my double bed in the Mission drunk on nothing more than my breath, you said “I want to know you for twenty years” as if that were the sinew, the promise of bone grafting us in place, hoping once to use the words in the right place with a woman who’d see it through with you.
And now, twenty years gone, how did it rip away, how did the blood dry up, the cells mutate, that once held us tongue to hip, eye to breast, hope conjured on so little.
I’ve been meat, pounded and dead since you’ve been gone.
Cheryl Diane Kidder