Losing my Virginity

This is my first time

writing about you.

I’ve never had to, you see

because you’re here;

I have your presence,

your attention,

your breath on my neck,

your hands mapping my body,

memorizing my topography

with fingertips and lips.

I can fall into your eyes

whenever I want,

just a wink opens them,

the you shining out into me

I don’t need my pretense,

can take off my armor,

leave it in a mangled heap

at the foot of our bed.

Who else has bathed in helichrysum and cedar with me?

Not even the trees,

only you, the stars, and moons and rocks on my shelf, sage and laurel

perfuming the air, candles waving tiny flames, blue light on the ceiling.

And, oh, your arms, your legs

entwined with mine until I can’t tell

which is whose, nestling my head

into that hollow on your shoulder,

the afterglow so strong

the moon hides in shame

behind veils of clouds,

jealous of our velvet laziness,

our incidental incandescence

brighter than Jupiter.

What would this swimmer do without you,

a buoy I cling to

after you make a sea of me?