You ease forward, prop your elbows on your knees.
The veins in your hands fascinate me,
like those aerial pictures I remember from school
of rivers worming through lush green areas of places I'd never been,
would never be. The curve of your back gave off heat,
the imaginary line where you ended and the room began
was too real, too sharp to be seen,
just felt. The look on your face seemed burnt
into the wood panel walls behind you.
You rose, pulling at your tie with one hand,
unbuckling your belt with the other, as ambidextrous
as a chef, as unsteady as water
spilled over dry ground. You tugged the belt out of its loops
and as your slacks sagged slightly around your waist,
you took both ends of the leather band in your fist
and swung it at my temple.
A blankness flashed up from somewhere
that I suddenly realized was always below me.
And in that vertigo
I came back to myself on the floor,
suddenly fascinated by the lightning-bolts forming
in the way the creases of your shirt
accommodated your motions
as you left my room
for someone else's.