I’m Yours


When do we hand ourselves over to another?

His thigh
is strong
beneath
his jeans.
Warm, it
moves,
an eel
in a cave
of denim.
Hands reach
for eels, holding
them, squeezing
them, capturing.

Hands atopayours
eels, you quietly
whispered
I’m yours
I’m yours
he whispered.

When do two
lovers meld
into one lover?
When do we
moan, “I’m yours”?
When do we
adopt ours
abandoning
I me mine his
and his?

I’m yours
he whispered
to me, me
with my eyes
holding
his eyes, our
hands holding
our hands.

I’m yours
he whispered
meaning
we’re ours.