JB.

His tall body leaned in. Obvious. As if taking the mouth closer to the ear protected the secret. Illogical. The friend turned his face, silently telling me he was beginning to understand. There was nothing gradual about it. Impossible to lessen curiosity - what story does another assign to you, tell me, what story did he choose? I had no option other than to become it. Watching, I didn't have it in me to do anything but stand, showing my guilt in a dress he zippered down then. Say it, was it me or our sex. No question, the answer is one I'll wait for. Flaunting, and yet there isn't anything forward about us. We've spoken and between lines said nothing. Yet enough to follow me for, but I only know this as I turn. And he pulls. Each finger. And I feel. So I have to say, Sorry I really have to get away. On the outside we were wrong. On the inside something reacted. That mattered. And why? Do bodies linger on hope. I aim to discover finally what he tries to say. Is that all this is? I hope I don't mean that little. Maybe inside the spaces I can find something. Raise the volume, and what?, silence still. No we can't be this: bare, already nothing. Sorry, touching, I really, eluded to the past, have to, our bedded illusion, get away. He whispered to the friend how we spent that weekend. He told him.


Last night, many dreams, and in one you said you've been writing and I said you mean to tell me you are a writer...My dream!...Pulling my leg...