Of course it was wrong.
Any fool could have told us that.
The way you looked at me that first day of school.
Your eyes like beacons, exposing my loneliness.
Even my father mentioned how handsome you were
before heading back to his busy life.
Was it those chiseled cheeks, the aquiline nose,
those wine-colored lips, all those classic accoutrements
of the Mediterranean gene pool?
Dad probably thought it was my luggage
and the steep stairs that left me breathless.
But you knew better.
For weeks you flitted those ridiculously long lashes
behind which those eyes performed their magic tricks.
I swam into them the way one dives into pounding surf.
Then that night,as it snowed outside,
you threw open your sheets, and beckoned me to join you.
Your skin was as hot as molten steel.
You gasped when my cold hand caressed your chest.
I leaned over to kiss you but you pushed me away.
No, you said, hoarse and angry: I’m not that way.
I held you in my arms regardless, until the sun crept up
to warn us it was day.
For weeks we met like this. Furtive, in shame, silently.
Until you told me you had found someone else. A girl.
Tell me, were her kisses what you really craved?
Or was it the sucker’s punch to my heart
that made you smile in triumph?
This article appears in Jan 26 – Feb 2, 2017.
