Here’s release. You and me, we’re not like them.
They pulled away. You sniffed my open palm
as you touched your lips. My fingers, my thumb,
even my wrist were soaked. The low buzz-bomb
growl of my vibrator filled the backseat
of your mom’s car. The upholstery had crude
scars and new finger-funk stains, while slush-sleet
coated the windows — Acheflow — We pursued
whatever we could do between the breaks.
Your prom was a bust; your college transcripts
denied. You were a ball of stress. All fraught
until a toy made you squirt up earthquakes
into my palm. They blanched while your hips
buckled wide in the Gaspar parking lot.