To be continued

Before last night,
I was an optimistic skeptic
with a synthesized spine
pining to support
an aborted dream,
a deserted hypothesis,
a hope
well nigh stifled down throat,
trampled by the reality
that love
never seems to beat
synonymously between lovers
with antonymous definitions.

Our chemistry,
needed no catalyst.
No enzyme
could accelerate us
into zero gravity
fast enough
to fuse our fall,
into the unanimous decision
that one of us,
will be forced to watch
the others’ orbital decay,
cremation upon descension
into an unforgiving ozone
of nostalgic skylines.
But the death of us,
will be brilliance ignited.

Last night,
what we lit
was more than a flickering,
vacillating flame of passion.
To date,
I can still count on one hand
how many times our first kiss
was stolen,
and left stranded
void of any reason
to believe our lips,
to ever be bold and naked enough
for honesty to undress
before us.

Last night,
your dimples
didn’t seduce me 
more than your sensual fingertips,
double dipping
into subtle skimming
along my back,
as if to read more
into my contour
than you’ve arched into mine.
I desired
to peruse the Braille
across your skin,
be fluent
in its idioms,
versed in the vernacular frame
of your curves.
We were as beautiful
as italicized calligraphy
losing our identities.

Last night, your lips,
were more than invited
to this inauguration ceremony,
but there was nothing formal
or orthodoxed in the way
we osculated.
We postulated
more sinuous signs
than we
were inclined to reveal.

I slipped,
you slid,
we sipped ourselves
into synaptic junctions
of stripped inhibitions,
reserved to be sensitived
by teasing tides of
rocking hips;
we were bent
to be shipwrecks
recovering our ruins
from a shore we both expected
to break upon.

Before last night,
memories of the you I loved
were finally being archived
into a forgetful past;
you were inscribed
into less of my poetry,
I penned
the majority
of our lives together
on a white flag
flailing regrets,
failing to realize
that you’ll always be
my inspiration for a lifetime,
a dream
never left aborted,
only docked in a bay
seeking voyage.