The first time we made
love,
it was on a fake bearskin rug beneath
the stars.

You kissed a burning fault line
down my stomach, and then
you kept going
down to where my mama told me
was only a place for the doctors and
for God.

When you kissed me afterwards,
I was surprised to learn
I taste like
the ocean.

With my hair damp around my face and
frayed as a bell-pull,
you told me I was beautiful and somehow
you weren't lying, even though
it wasn't true.

Finally,
you split me open like a
coconut and
(I will not lie)
there was some pain but
it was as sweet as brown sugar and
I welcomed it with open arms.
(Legs.)

Every poem has a you,
a you that the writer writes to,
but
most of the time
poetry is full of secrets
that are never spoken and must remain
trapped on the paper till they are lost, or worse-
expired.

I don't agree.

To me,
every word has
color and
weight and
must be set free so that
they can burrow in the curve of your ear
to keep you company and make sure
I am on
your mind.

This time, the you is
you,
just in case you were
confused.

I hope that you don't mind
that I take the words you've given me and
spin them into gold that I can wear
around my neck;
I am just a dirty thief but
there are only 26 letters
for me to chose from,
after all.

But I digress.

We fell off the edge together,
or should I say we closed our eyes and
jumped.

So often partners take the plunge
one at a time, or worse-
someone never falls
at all because
they are too
scared.

But you held my hand and
looked into my eyes until
we both reached the
bottom.

You know the edge I mean.

If only I could put into words
what that meant to me.