Our hands were sticky where
they clung together, humid
in that dank cathedral, moist
with the memory of secrets
for which we had snatched the code.
Avid and brave with curiosity, you
had seen for yourself the tumid magic
your fingers could perform and
those kisses in the cardboard closet
were like raising my face to a warm rain.
Me, you invited to peel back
the petals, to gaze
on the flower's dewy radiant heart
and for that vision I owe you.
I can't smell curing concrete
without a rush of heat, a tribute
to our explorations in the basement
of your then yet unfinished home.
