that is okay to be myself

to feel vulnerable and loved

without being cavalier 

without aiming for shock value 

and disconnected laughter. 

They ask how it was,

when you led me carefully

over the cobblestones, through 

your dark house, with both

of your hands holding my own,

falling into your softness, into

your bed and your kisses.

But this is all I can tell them:

I have loved, I have not. I have been

fucked as vulgarly as I talked about it,

but the way that you held my ankle

was more intimate than everything else

I have ever experienced before
put together.