Not just another story I can't tell my mother.

Your fingers reached to the back of my skull.
Your words touched where your hands could not.
You turned out to be my perfect cup of coffee
While I figured why I hated tea.
In your duplex apartment, we went one.
Simply and softly.                          
Very softly and very simply.
The only thing hard were the muted million kisses,
As if we were scared of the walls who might tell your neighbours.
We were fierce.
But in an attempt to leave the creases on our hearts
And not on to the blue bedspread.

We lay next to each other
While our clothes made friendship with the floor.
Between the fire and us and our skin, there was no room for light.
The night itself was like the match sticks that burnt and died.
It burnt because it was about us. It died because it had to.
My mother says there’s no shame in being hungry.
But how do I tell her I am hungry for another person.
Hungry for another soul. Hungry for another heart.
Hungry for another girl.