Caravaggio
Nokyoung Xayasane

It’s not hard to see
nor difficult
to predict
that we would be here
in this room
on this night
again,
and again,
and again,
and again.

I can still feel
your fingers,
the arch
of your thumb,
the soft giving
of your palm.

I’ll brush my hand
along your back,
its smooth
unexplored terrain.

I’ll rest my head
on the dampness of
your chest,
a heaving that calms
and then
heaves again.

In the room,
there are only
two bodies.
In this space,
there are
no
questions.

When I hear
your voice
my body
vanishes,
it falls away.
My body,
it returns again,
new and magnified.
My skin,
it becomes
a fragile sheath
that slips
to the floor
effortlessly.

When I feel
the pressure
of your
open mouth,
its sharpness
steady
against my lip,
I know,
my body,
it belongs to you,
it obeys
your commands,
it understands
and it questions,
it anticipates,
and it gives in,
my body,
it gives over.

There is
a purity
to the brutality.
There is a holiness
in the defilement.
You are a raw
untethered wire
ripping through
the air,
electric,
sparking,
alive.
I am
a jumble
of unconnected
thoughts
veering off-course,
trying to keep
from drowning.

And then
there is a quietness
in the room.
There are
a multitude
of breaths,
calm
and steady,
long
and pure.
There is
your body
elongated
against the sheets.
There is my
fragility
lying next to you.
Along
my body
you have left
your marks
seen and unseen.

We hold
each other
close
to prevent
ourselves
from
going
under.