We laid in the hotel bed,
toes intertwined as vines in the heat:
My left hand traces navel,
the right is curled around your neck.

A sort of breeze — evanescent, almost imperceptible —
pushes the wetness of your breath through my open lips.
We stare into the darkness between our faces.

Everything but this moment is a lie.
Everything I was taught about
being a man.
Love.
Everything.

I imagine your velvet heart beating deep inside the paleness of your chest
and for an instant the entire universe
beats,
expanding and contracting
with that red lump.

I am your palimpsest.
Rip my pages out and write your new words
inside me.