Breakfast Table written by Sublime

                                      
                                              
I
t was at the breakfast table,  

that we first touched lips,  

tongues, cheekbones, chins  

the moon, dripping and sad  

invading the atramentous block  

that was her kitchen.  

 

My pink flesh probed hers,  

curious, queer  

so different than the kiss of a man  

Desire, begging, question  

fleeting sexuality  

 

And we continued to kiss,  

a fish feeding along the ocean floor,  

Her mouth tasting of the slick,  

glossy, artificial sheen that coated  

her lips,  

and mine tasting  

of the words of sorrow and glee  

pleading of question  

that I had devoured in shy attempt  

to keep my attraction to her  

a locked secret.  

 

Our kiss wrote stories of passion and sin  

of heat and time to grant the future  

it captivated my attention wading  

into the riptide of her asphalt eyes.  

Her intrigue, a lead bar placed across my throat,  

and then friction, the collision of our  

sexuality,  

and we withered to nothing more than  

a pink flower, pressed against the pages  

of our own thick book, dried to the point of crumbling,  

leaving me with nothing more than memories of  

experiment, friendship, melancholia, and concussion,  

 

the distance across the breakfast table  

seeming so much greater now.