I Remember You

I Remember You Yes, I remember you, the dark-skinned girl, dressed in tight corduroy, unzipped on the floor there. You were my lover that night in 1970; We were wrestling so smoothly, so passionately, in the old brick house on Hoover street. Remember honey? Just you and me alone in the darkness, kissing like kids crazy about each other, listening to Hendrix on the oak console, Electric Merman on axe in 1983, Playing like a god from beneath the fiery pinnacles of the Styx. Remember? We were 18 and wild with wordless desire. I kissed you often that night in the grey bluesy shadows, embracing intensely your perfumed, unbuttoned body, on beige thick shag by the open screen door, with that benign breeze blowing in softly and silently, like the breath of whispering ghosts, watching there, as we groped and licked, two kneading felines, quivering, insecure in the darkness, our lips, slickered and lathered in strawberry paste and love spit, and our reaching tongues, seared and slithering like caught tunas, found electric connections in the heaving nets of aching fleshly onslaughts, of mad touching embraces, with esoteric teenage sweatings at silent midnight, in June, when the jacarandas are in bloom. Yes, I remember you, The girl with the brown perfumed skin, and those kissing smacking sucking lips that spoke so loudly, without ever saying a word.