watched him cook.

so last night i watched him cook.

after a fantasy fulfilled on counters and stove tops, our appetites were as big as our eyes.
it began by the guest bathroom door next to the stairs as my head rested on the first step and his head moving slowly between my legs.
one of those moments where God magically appears on the ceiling.

the mirror behind the mail table allowed me to watch
and he could see me seeing him enjoying parts of me i needed him to enjoy.

we next moved to the old couch with the torn pillows right across from stereo pumping out janet jackson wailing 'but i didn't even get to cum.'

neither of us would use that line this night.

my tongue, as short as it is, managed to find that one great spot and moved in a circle watching his head do the same and his lips part and come together again as though he needed to speak.
this time there were no need for words.

his back pressed against the old onion and green pepper pieces on the cutting board from out dinner just 56 minutes prior to this spontaneous session.
but it didn't matter.
the back of his thighs pressed against my chest and his head on a side tilt into the sink.
but it was comfortable.

i made all the right moves.
in and out and side to side.
but all slow.

there's something about the kitchen that prohibits fucking.
you have to make love in kitchens or at least show a deep infatuation.

his chest pressed against the refrigerator and my chest pressed against his back we danced naked to the southern hummingbird.
me inside him.
slow.

'i swear i'm spinning. i'm on a merry-go-round.'

with the left side of his face pressed against the freezer and his lips held captive between his teeth he showed his deep infatuation with me in the refrigerator door.
and i followed but remained inside.

after the bleach bottles disappeared and the kitchen was clean again, i sat at the bar listening to tweet's track number 9 and waited for the smells we created to fade away while the smells of the potatoes, pancakes, salmon cakes, eggs and turkey bacon took over.

so that's what i did last night. i watched him cook.

wrote him a poem.

so last night i write him a poem.

when the hardwood floors were silent and the sun's high began to fall i sat next to dying fire on a marble floor in my black briefs and white t.

i stared at him attempting to kidnap his thoughts and hold them captive on this blank sheet in front of me.
but he kept those thoughts locked and his eyes on the floor that lay four feet in front of him.

the struggle for power between the scorched wood in the fireplace and the raw air that crept under the door ended when the last flash of an orange-red fire vanished.
the heat was gone.

we sat there, cold.
my camera and my pen occupying my hands and this thre-quarters naked man occupying my mind.
i took the picture.
i sat down my camera and formed a death grip on the pen as if for dear life.
and i began to write:

-----
i’m trying to do that other shit with you
the type of shit we daydream about during commercial and cigarette breaks
there will be no reruns this time
just original thoughts and new places to kiss you
places that have gone undiscovered
and I want to be that breath that never made it to your lungs
so this time when you exhale it’ll be slow and forever
i want to become familiar with the hairs on the back of your neck so when they tickle my lips I’ll laugh
i’m done with just kicking it too
i want to picnic inside by fireplaces on days when it rains
so the sunshine will be never be missed
and dance between bites of lumpia and glasses of grapefruit
I want to lose you between the sheet and discover you all over again
this time starting at your toes
taking your heel into my palms
so your sole’s in my hand
and whisper
‘you alright?’
-----

and one day, when the furniture arrives and we're sitting comfortable and warm on leathers and suedes i'll read it to him, and watch his eyes go from the fallen moon to me.

i folded the poem and slipped it between books on the shelf.
baldwin and hughes.
how appropriate, i thought.

so last night i wrote him a poem.

cried for my friend.

so last night i cried for my friend.

a few back-to-back episodes of good times couldn't create enough laughs to cover up what came next.

with a little more than a smile, i answered the phone hoping it was cereal buddy calling to ask for another bowl of cinnamon toast crunch.
but not this time.

the sadness of a person's voice before conveying a message gives the brain too much to work with.
i began thinking of him and her and them.
and i couldn't get a tight grip around any one though, so the 'hims' and 'hers' and 'thems' were everybody.
my eyes prepared themselves for the tears.

'i just got the call from his mom. he died an hour ago.'

and in that second, florida evans wasn't so serious. jj wasn't so funny and michael wasn't the revolutionary they hoped him to be,
i found fault in it all.

all the cliched thoughts ran crazy:
'i just talked to him. he can't be dead.'
'he's in a better place'

fuck all that. he wasn't hear now. there was nobody here right now to eat my last bagel and drink that last little bit of vodka that's been in the freezer for weeks waiting for someone special.

there was nobody here to cuss out for turning from the golden girls to something stupid on discovery health.

had he called me tonight i would have ignored his call and called him back in the morning and listen to him cuss me out for not answering in his time of need.
his need being food or liquor.
and for not being here now i hated him.

on my couch sat the cherrywood brown man, looking me in the eye as i watched him through the mirror.
the tears remained hidden.

'are you alright?' he removed his glasses and stood up, paused the movie and stretched out his hand, requesting mine.

i held onto the phone that whispered its dialtone in my right ear.

he checked for a voice on the other end of the phone, then hung up, not once removing his eyes off of me.
'i asked if you were alright.'

and before i knew it, my fingertips were begging his spine for comfort.
and he hugged me back.

and there i stood, a crying man mourning the loss of my friend in the arms of someone comfortable.

and later he watched me sleep during the flood.

so last night i cried for my friend.

took a deep breath.

so last night i took a deep breath.

the last box of tomato and spinach pizza found it's way to the garbage and i found myself lying face down on the febreeze-scented carpet.
i was full.

this was no stranger's house, so i lay there with my shoes off, listening to Janet Jackson blow the last chorus of 'let's wait a while' through headphone in the kitchen.
and the sound of faucet water and the clinking of glasses being put up to dry.

i smiled.
this was that comfortable feeling i missed.
that feeling of being able to just chill and kick it and not be bogged down with 'what are we doing tonight?'
this was relaxing and going with the flow.

those water wrinkled, well manicured and lotioned hands were now on the back of my neck while my eyes pretended to be shut.
the smile gave away my secret.

i could feel his heart beating on my spine, and the grooves of his fingertips on my neck.
i could feel him blinking and hear him thinking to himself.
and he could tell i wasn't sleeping.

'there's something i want to tell you. there's something i think that you should know.'

and each syllable and note would have caused each hair on my neck to rise had i not just gotten a cut.
i missed this.

the lips i had been watching chew gum, then pizza crust were a breath away from my ear.
the lips i watched move up and down and then curve frequently during jokes were now a whisper away from mine.

'let's wait a while. before we...'
and i kissed him.

and between the bottom lip biting and tongue sucking, i found my eyes open watching him, making sure this wasn't my imagination running wild.
the 4.5 cups of pomegranate juice and vodka would do one of two things:
1. create a false sense of confidence, and make me go that extra mile that i normally wouldn't sober.
2. act as a mind eraser, leaving me dumb and wondering in the morning.

his tongue tasted like hawaiin punch and his shirt had been sprayed with bvlgari.
i'd find him in the dark if i needed to.

and in the dark we created snow angels in the carpets (if that makes sense).
and when the light broke through this morning i remembered everything about him.

but more importantly, i remember how comfortable it was.
and how deep i breathed.

and then i fixed us a bowl of cinnamon toast crunch.

yeah.
so last night i took a deep breath.