Breakfast Table

It was at the breakfast table,  
that we first touched lips,  
tongues, cheekbones, chins  
the moon, dripping and sad  
invading the atramentous block  
that was her kitchen.  
 
My pink flesh probed hers,  
curious, queer  
so different than the kiss of a man  
Desire, begging, question  
fleeting sexuality  
 
And we continued to kiss,  
a fish feeding along the ocean floor,  
Her mouth tasting of the slick,  
glossy, artificial sheen that coated  
her lips,  
and mine tasting  
of the words of sorrow and glee  
pleading of question  
that I had devoured in shy attempt  
to keep my attraction to her  
a locked secret.  
 
Our kiss wrote stories of passion and sin  
of heat and time to grant the future  
it captivated my attention wading  
into the riptide of her asphalt eyes.  
Her intrigue, a lead bar placed across my throat,  
and then friction, the collision of our  
sexuality,  
and we withered to nothing more than  
a pink flower, pressed against the pages  
of our own thick book, dried to the point of crumbling,  
leaving me with nothing more than memories of  
experiment, friendship, meloncholia, and concussion,  
 
the distance across the breakfast table  
seeming so much greater now.