October

The air outside us is sharp, and heavy with moisture, and we start to walk, and we match each other’s rhythm, a pair of lust-drunk metronomes, where getting to know you better is the unthreading of a well-worn coat, and gripping your waist thrills, – ardour – never having realized the reach of one arm swallows you, or how small that makes you, and how hungry that makes me; and I am so very hungry.

It is October, late in the month. It is always dark here.

Sometimes the darkness cleaves fulsomely, anxiously. Others, it hangs on your eyelids like heat: exciting, soporific, but most of all an incantation to burrow into each other’s skin.

It is late October, and we walk, in syncopated beat, until we stop; until we can not stop.

I turn to you, or you turn to me, or is it that we both turn to each other, and I don’t want to say, and neither do you.