A Wigwam for a Goose's Bridle

There are so many excuses

I could give you, when you ask

why I am staring so intently

at your mouth. I am captivated

by those lips, a shade of rose 

that no man-made pigment could capture, 

imagining them brushing 

gently against mine, and breathing

sweet nothings into my ear.

I could say there is sauce 

there, in the corner, and you’d wipe

your lips with a serviette

and I’d be jealous of that cheap

tissue paper, but all I’d say is 

yes, yes, that’s better now

and you’d be none the wiser.

I could blame my neurodivergence.

Perhaps, today, eye contact 

is overwhelming (right now, 

eye contact is overwhelming, 

and I cannot look 

into those stained-glass windows

lest they see straight through me) or

perhaps today I needed to focus on

the movements of your mouth

so that I could follow the conversation,

but the truth is 

I’ve barely heard a word you said

despite witnessing the eloquent dance

of your lips forming sounds. I was too busy

wondering if they feel 

as supple as they look,

and imagining that they do,

imagining what they could do

to me

with me.

But lies don’t come easily to me.

That’s always been one of the things

you said you value so highly 

in this friendship (that I don’t want to lose),

and so here, in this moment of absolute terror

I freeze, and I stutter, and there goes

any chance I had of smoothly deflecting.

You offer me 

a void of silence, hoping I will fill it,

and I do not, 

I cannot. 

All I hear 

is the reverberation of my pulse in my head, 

aware of your eyes interrogating my face

as I now look everywhere, and anywhere, 

but not at you.

You reach out, the backs of your fingers 

stroke my cheek, shooting electric sparks 

into the core of my shame,

your voice is low, 

slow, 

like trying to calm 

a skittish horse. 

“I don’t know 

what’s got you so spooked today,

but fuck, 

I could kiss you right now.”

I’m not even sure if I believe my own senses.

Is this just my imagination 

again? 

But it gives me the courage to commit 

to the truth – 

that actually, maybe, I was wishing you would.

And I know it’s cliche, but it feels like a movie

as the world in my peripheral vision fades out

and all I can see is you moving towards me,

then those lips approach mine, reverently

at first, and I touch them,

taste them,

softer and sweeter

than I’d ever imagined

and the fireworks shoot to the base of my spine, 

which explodes yet again

as your hand reaches round to the small of my back

and pulls me against you with tender authority,

the confidence of one who knows exactly

what they are doing, exactly

what they want. Do you know

that I am now yours

to command? Perhaps you do:

I feel warm breath in my ear

and the whisper

“come with me”