I offered to hold your shoes: your feet were stockinged.
The carpet muffled our feet as we stepped from room
to room, turning all of the lights out.
Then you pushed me down until I fell into soft folds of
velvet, the cloth you spread across your bed.
Uttering quiet moans into my ear, pressing your lips against
the hollow at the base of my neck, and I arch my back,
pull you to me, kneading my hands into your skin
like through dough. And the smell of you is yeasty,
your sour woman-smell mingled with the soot of London
on your skin, remnants of pavements and hand-rails,
puddles and bricks. I want to wash you clean. I want
to tag you as mine, go out with you, my hand slung casually
around your hip. Instead I sleep night after night,
and dream of him with you, next to you, on you. I keep
tender these dreams of you and yearn for the next time you
will slip through my door and take my face in your hands.
In the morning, I watch you roll your stockings back up
as you perch on the edge of the bed, and
I wonder why I was not born a man.