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 atop
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.

 

A man’s body is simply concave/vex.

When I watch Rodrigo slip out of his undershirt nightly, I see a pair of wide shoulders become bare. These shoulders are capped by a beanie of muscle. Muscle he uses daily to lift, to haul, or, nightly to push and pull.

They are convex.

When I watch Rodrigo watching me, I see his eyes. Magnificently brown and almond-shaped.

They are convex.

At night, under the sheet from our bed I feel his buttocks. Flexing and relaxing they are simply muscle.

They are concave.

In the twilight and glistening with goose-flesh, I see Rodrigo’s face. His lips: a pair of smiles. His hollowed and haloed cheeks.

They are concave.

Men’s bodies are elegant and simple geometrical shapes.