We can pass for undersized cynics in pants
but naked, oh, naked
we are such children I can't meet your eyes.

You, with your hands cupped protectively
over your lips, cheeks puffed out,
and the silence spilling like spat milk
through your splayed fingers,
trickling down your chin.
And me, kissing the inside of your left thigh
where the skin is loose and goose-bumped.
My elbows haven't been this sore
and my mouth this dry
since I stayed up
reading ghost stories,
grandmother's rotted quilt draped
over the short spiky hair
at the back of my head.

But I guess the shame alone means I'm not eight anymore.

Besides, you taste like sunscreen
and embarrassing damp dreams,
not
terror.
"I think I love you"
is sealed like an old, old truth
between my face
and your knee.