Making Memories..!

I.

She lives in a house filled with books.
Earthy hues of green and brown color the walls.
A warm, cozy clutter permeates the house
she grew up in.

A giant glass bottle of Belvedere vodka props
open one of the bathroom doors.
A bottle of whiskey sits on the kitchen counter.
She says she needs a drink to calm her nerves
when she’s around me.

Her drawing table is covered with neat stacks
of clothes that she probably folded moments before
I got there.
Her closet is stacked with books.
Her room feels familiar, as if I belong there.

II.

She has a boy cat named Kahlo who sleeps
on a metal newspaper stand, inside her bedroom.
She confesses that once, she kept eggs for years
after a school project because they were
pretend children, and it seemed cruel
to throw them out.

III.

She keeps heavy work boots and duct tape
in her trunk. She hastily reassures me
it’s for her architecture job—not for serial killing.

She favors comfortably worn boots,
and washes her hands with French soap.
She says she doesn’t do karaoke.
I lay in bed and smile to myself as
I hear sweetly sung notes through the running
noise of the shower.

IV.

We kiss each other, as if the seconds might slip
away like sand beneath us.
My lips and tongue find my way to the bare skin
of her throat.
I begin rhythms and sucks and swirls, she moans,
arches her head back, while I breathe a low whisper
into her ear, “And that’s just your neck…”

V.

We kiss each other…I get lost in the slow,
rhythmic dance between our mating lips,
and a sweetness burning, yearning tease.
I get lost in pillowy plushness,
the way her mouth tastes, and the idea
that I might slide deeply into something
unfathomable once our clothes slip
their way off.

VI.

We kiss each other, and every time I open my eyes,
it’s as if I’m awakening from the dreamy haze
of a deep sleep.

VII.

We kiss each other, and her green-eyed gaze
stares right through my soul as if it were glass.
“Who are you?” she asks. A single thought collides
into my head, obliterating the rampant clutter
that always crowds my brain.
“You know who I am.” I say simply.

VIII.

My eyelids open to morning light
that casts cool white into her bedroom.
I wake to see her gaze, jade-colored,
bright around the edges. A smile warms
her face, lips curve gently, that sweet-slow,
melodic-low hum coats her voice like honey,
as she says, “Good morning.”

IX.

We kiss each other in the kitchen while
she’s making breakfast.
She tells me I’m a terrible distraction.
“The house will burn down from bacon grease
catching fire, and we probably won’t notice.
” I kiss her again, running my hands smoothly over
her warm, naked toffee skin, feeling her sigh
into my touch. I tell her, “This is why you shouldn’t
wear so many layers.”

X.

I stare at her with bourbon-colored,
brown-eyed intensity, over coffee and breakfast,
as she sits across from me.
Time slows to a halt when she stares at me.
I’m suddenly ineloquent and inarticulate,
silenced by profound feelings.
She asks me what I’m thinking.
“Everything feels new with you.
It feels like we’re already making memories.
Right now.”