After, he turns
the water on,
takes the loofah
from my mouth,
fondles soap in,
washes himself off
me. Now fully
lathered, he leads
his detachable
silver shower head
across each crease.
I close my eyes. He
chooses my chest,
pressing into my
skin, which blushes
like any organ,
his shower head’s
pores riding
mine, released
to its heat until,
finally, I feel him
pull back, the spray
surrounding me,
its mind relieving
mine until it’s more
like I’m inside of
touch itself, such
a simple thing,
submission—
an open drain
emboldens
every circling
speck of want.
When he turns
the water off,
it drips, from him
to me. The drops
fall, at first,
so fast. Then,
farther apart.
We wait. I keep
my eyes closed.
This is my
favorite part.