Tongue Out

The green dress. The zip going down.

You arched. The way you only do on that balcony — like the city below could see you and you wanted it to. Hands flat on the railing. Back doing that slender thing it does when you decide to take it. Hair fell forward.

You looked back at me once. Mouth open. Tongue out.

That’s the picture I lost and don’t need, because it is burned in.

I went deep. You shouted. Twice. The neighbours heard. You didn’t care. I didn’t care. Nothing in my life has ever been more worth the noise complaint.

Wear something with a zip at the back tonight.