deepundergroundpoetry.com
Responsibility repudiation: The towel made me fuck you
It was sweet, then it was hot
and in my defense I didn't mean to
rip off your pants.
It was just that the way you shifted,
not quite making eye contact...
It's just that I found that my panties were
no longer wearable, and I
accidentally let myself
slip
on
you.
Just a little.
It was like this:
I just wanted to finish walking off
the summer storm, which traced the
length of my inner thigh like a memory,
and made me a little weak.
Just a little.
Just enough,
to realize that I wanted
to be out of the rain for a while.
And there you were with a fucking towel.
Then I was naked at your kitchen table,
and you were calm, casually chatting it up,
and I truly wanted to sit there in nothing but a towel —
my feet on the edge of the chair,
arms wrapped around my knees,
lost in a thought for as long as it lasted —
and just be calm, too.
But I guess I let the towel slip.
Just a little.
(just enough)
You know that perfect moment,
when the intensity of attraction
becomes a tangible commodity?
There's that awkwardness,
which makes you tense up,
lick your lips, hold your breath
and swallow hard, waiting for the
moment to shift, praying nobody
notices you can't
stand
up.
I looked at my coffee cup,
swallowed so hard I think they heard it
four houses over, held my breath,
waited for the fucking moment to pass...
and out of the corner of my eye,
I saw you reach your hand under the table
and adjust yourself.
So it's not my fault you ended up
pinned to a chair,
lost beneath a curtain of my hair.
trying to maintain a civil
conversation
while I speak to you
without words,
of things that leave the imprint
of the chair embedded on your back,
and the taste of my sweat on your conversation...
You held out the towel.
(just a little)
I didn't really mean...
(just enough)
and the bruises from your
fingers clenching
dappled my inner thighs,
and made me forget
it ever rained.
and in my defense I didn't mean to
rip off your pants.
It was just that the way you shifted,
not quite making eye contact...
It's just that I found that my panties were
no longer wearable, and I
accidentally let myself
slip
on
you.
Just a little.
It was like this:
I just wanted to finish walking off
the summer storm, which traced the
length of my inner thigh like a memory,
and made me a little weak.
Just a little.
Just enough,
to realize that I wanted
to be out of the rain for a while.
And there you were with a fucking towel.
Then I was naked at your kitchen table,
and you were calm, casually chatting it up,
and I truly wanted to sit there in nothing but a towel —
my feet on the edge of the chair,
arms wrapped around my knees,
lost in a thought for as long as it lasted —
and just be calm, too.
But I guess I let the towel slip.
Just a little.
(just enough)
You know that perfect moment,
when the intensity of attraction
becomes a tangible commodity?
There's that awkwardness,
which makes you tense up,
lick your lips, hold your breath
and swallow hard, waiting for the
moment to shift, praying nobody
notices you can't
stand
up.
I looked at my coffee cup,
swallowed so hard I think they heard it
four houses over, held my breath,
waited for the fucking moment to pass...
and out of the corner of my eye,
I saw you reach your hand under the table
and adjust yourself.
So it's not my fault you ended up
pinned to a chair,
lost beneath a curtain of my hair.
trying to maintain a civil
conversation
while I speak to you
without words,
of things that leave the imprint
of the chair embedded on your back,
and the taste of my sweat on your conversation...
You held out the towel.
(just a little)
I didn't really mean...
(just enough)
and the bruises from your
fingers clenching
dappled my inner thighs,
and made me forget
it ever rained.
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 7
reading list entries 2
comments 10
reads 1468
Commenting Preference:
The author encourages honest critique.