If you beckon, I will come.

You can blog about this, he said.
I don't want to blog about this, I think.

What would it mean to list what we did?
Where we met.
What I ate.
What he drank.
What we watched.
How many times we each went to pee.

The hours we spent
talking and laughing
challenging Google
on Iris DeMent.

What would it mean
if you weren't there?

What would it mean
to describe his delight
as we sat there for hours
in a neighborhood bar,
feasting on chicken wings,
chatting with bar maids,
my bright blue eyes sparkling
from won games of chance?

What would it mean
if you heard what his eyes said,
or smelled the desire,
or touched the shared music,
as we made out like teenagers
wrestling the front seat,
parked by the dumpsters
yielding to need?

You can blog about this, he said.
But you must tell me every word.

So I'll show him every word.

But not every word was written.
Not everything gets spoken
when mere presence says it all.

We sang with eyes and kisses
which don't lie the way that words can.
We spoke with smiles and kisses
and then parted in the dusk.