Beginnings

It was eight years ago you kissed me for the first time...

Out back behind your friend's townhouse,
on a patch of grass in the desert
we talked about life in small talk-- strip malls
and the never-ending tract housing
swallowing up Arizona's wide land.

A full white moon shined down
on our young faces.
Your hands were in your jeans pockets
as we stared up into the basin of light.

You stood close to me...
and then lowered your head
became silent.

You looked straight at me
the wind tossed about the curls of your brown hair,
you waited for my eyes to meet yours

And then you kissed me.

It was not a kiss of passion,
nor sexuality. It was delicate, like you...
You did not move your hands on my body,
you restrained.

A humble, gentle man before me...
fumbling to figure out what to do

Such sweetness in your confusion.

Years later we have met and wandered into each other's bodies.
But your kisses now are hungry,
and you gesture with wild hands,

I must share my gift with the world-- my music
This is why I am here. 

Where is your soft voice, my old friend--
the uncertainty in your fingers?

Where are those confused hands--
as I once taught you how to please me?