On the Night of November the 8th

Written by: Angela Fabunan

The mind is blank, is black, is blackout
I, on the outside, looking in at my
body so thin, could barely breathe in, I
must have been trembling, your huge coat was
maybe helping, but even then I was
not thinking are all my senses lost. It
was autumn evening, maybe there was frost.

Was there a bitterness in my kiss or
was it just the twinge of tequila’s hiss?
The leaves swirl, but slower than the whirl of
liquid spirits within me and whether 
or not you truly want me, in this true
moment surely only you can know me:
because we together felt the earth revolve
beneath our feet as we stood flat above it

I see everything in details, but 
alas, only in details: this vision
of you. I see pieces of full lips, red
at center and brown at cornertips, here
are two dotted moles, here’s a sprinkled nose,
a mystical smile, and then miles and miles
of skin, warm and yielding under these palms
that are oh so softly caressing. How
curious, the shape we’re in, and the lines
that have been drawn to outline us, where
bones make paths for skin to follow
and in between for blood to flow.