Bowman Hall, A Repeated One Act.

I can't escape being soaked tonight.
Thrown out by our own wanton desires,
we seek shelter from the sickly orange sky
in a campus building where I have class
Twice a week.
His hoodie feels heavy and constricting,
It's damp.
So is the rest of me.
My bangs are stuck to my forehead.
His soft, dark hair is on its edge.
We find refuge in a classroom,
where once you shut the door
it locks from the outside.
Our lips find each other in this blackness,
the color of our clothes, the room and our eyes
the perfect metaphor.
They're so warm, wet and dark.
I've never needed so badly
someone who I shouldn't have.
Someone who isn't mine,
but stolen from me.
And I from him.
Drastic measures call for drastic actions.
I'm atop him, jacket off,
and lips digging his.
My tongue fences for dominance against his.
It always was my strongest weapon.
Even in this room it's raining,
It oozes from every pore in the body
and every whole in the wall.
Every part of me is wet.
My eyes, lips and the places he penetrates.
My feet can't touch the ground from this chair.
I cradle his face in my hands.
His skin is warm to the touch, and I kiss him
while I rock back and forth.
He grabs ahold of my waist,
to force me up and down.
There's a rain in this room tonight,
running down my back, chest, brow...
and in between my thighs.
I can't avoid being soaked tonight.
His breathing matches my own frenzied pace.
I want him to mouth my name instead of hers.
And he does, laborously.
It's a game of call and response.
As again I let go of the name I've mouthed many nights past
And the erruptions of feeling that is to accompany it.
We finish with Act I.
But I'm looking into his darkened iris,
And I know only this:
There will be an Act II tonight,
but this play has yet to reach curtain.