Brunch

This is just brunch, not sex. Not like two nights ago when nothing but a sheen of sweat separated us. We're being good boys, divided by this canyon of a table, but I can't keep my eyes off your lips that so readily met mine, explored at will. Silverware and a barricade of condiments restrain us, so even reaching to touch your hand feels like transgression. As we eat the all-day breakfast, the promise of neverending eggs, I wonder if we’ll ever meet again. We fucked too soon, my old Achilles heel tripping me up, but you insist it was a mutual lack of control. How to erase and rewind, take back the night we went too far, so that this date is full of anticipation, palpable electricity, barely touched food, our parting kiss prelude, not postscript.