We were 96%, according to the Cupid.
We mixed our traditional and our liberalism
on our inked-up arms
while he opened my door
and held onto me against the icy path.
96%
as he confessed his crush,
how nervous he’d been to meet me,
while I, who never blushes,
turned red and bowed my head —
and again, when he said I was beautiful.
I fell into his milk chocolate eyes
that did not look away
but sought their way into the soft places of my spirit,
soothed my guarding
until, arriving back at my place,
I yielded, then yielded,
and yielded some more.
We crossed into his masculine, my feminine,
and all of it was right there —
in the confessing, the reaching, the answering.
Sweetness and sex wrapped themselves around hope
and the whole world was, once again, possible.
And then
he went away.
Closed his body and closed his heart,
left me standing alone,
raw and exposed to the elements.
4%.
So I wrapped myself in the thick wool blanket
of next time it might be different
and carefully reignited the little ember of hope
that, perhaps foolishly,
keeps burning underground.
© Sabrina Santa Clara, 2012