We’re not painted, thinned out
technicolour prints of what love claims to be.
We’re rolled and dimpled skin,
and the slick rawness of lips
touching for the first time.
We’re the hours that vanish
while you hold your fingers over my skin,
forming circles in my back,
and me letting you.
We’re schoolhouse windows decades old,
broken glass and rusted bars,
but we’ve leaned out through the history,
risked cuts on the windowsills,
and seen how lush the schoolyard is,
how wild the trees have grown.
We’re the ones who make no apologies –
behind closed doors we make love
like it’s our last revolution.
Defeating hate and greed tastes like
your kisses when you’re sweaty, smells like
your hair when you wake up, feels like
the way you look at me when I say I love you.
Our love is no political protest,
but in this clenched fist world,
loving at all is a radical act,
and loving like this
strikes fear into the hearts of men
who don’t know how to lay it bare.