Moonlight woke me, silent, pale, passing through the window like water that is not there, passing across the glass like a ghost ship passing across the moon, passing like these last minutes of the night, last nights of the year, last years of my life, passing without a cloud.

Behind me, also lying on his side, my sleeping lover wraps his arms around me, pulls himself up close to spoon. I feel his knees beneath my knees, his thighs beneath my thighs, as if I'm sitting on his lap lying down, his broadly sculpted athlete's arms around my graceful poet's chest.

I feel his penis stiffen, wide and muscular, like a third thigh at my back, and then his breathing deepens, the way the moon gets darker when I cannot keep my eyes from closing into sleep. He is awake. I watch the moon in its slow trajectory across the pane. His strong hand falls across my hip, his long fingers reach down softly, softly close around my balls as if he's protecting a bag of bubbles. He splays them, dandles them like spun sugar candies in their bag that's soft like eyelids, lifts his fingers to match the delicate length of my own penis hardly thicker than his thumb. His second hand moves beneath me, spreads my cheeks, and makes me moist as if he kissed me open with his tongue, wider and wider for that part of him that now, in gentle increments, replaces his fingers, his hand, and enters me with a mind of its own, thick as an animal itself. I feel him moving farther into me like moonlight entering the room, like nothing that is everything. He fills me the way the moonlight fills the room until I can see each piece of furniture, each article of clothing, every sepal and petal on every one of the dozen white roses he left for me to say I love you, just the way he fills me till I feel tears overflowing, running down my cheeks into the pillow case. I am so glad of this bright moon.

I feel him everywhere. There is no room left anyplace in me. When he begins to move my hips on him his forearms lift me by themselves, raising me toward the moon and pulling me back until I'm lying on his lap again, pierced utterly, pierced through, pressed so deep his very lap is in me. He lifts me toward the moon again and when he pulls me back to him I feel he is the moon come up and out of me to light the room, the sky, the night. He lifts and pulls and lifts and pulls until the night passes into dawn, the moon becomes a pale witness slyly leaving sleeping dogs to lie, and I would fall asleep again to the gentle rhythm of his love when in a small frenzy he shakes the whole of me on his excited moment and the fading moon just shatters into stars.

 

©2002 James Williams - Contributor's Bio