I loved the way you kissed me.
Through
all of the muddled thoughts of “Stay away”
and
“This won't end well”, my mind spiraled down
like a
tornado about to touch the Earth's land with
nothing
more than a gentle hand.
And
now...
Sitting
in my car: breath reeking of cigarettes,
eyes
worn thin from hours of tequila filled conversation,
having
fought to win a confined place in that lock-box heart,
and
all I'm left with are immature thoughts that wash away
every
last bit of my self logistics, leaving me breathless in a room
of
winding air...
Yet do
I listen to this ill-fated prophecy?
Is it
even prophecy? Is this nothing more
than
the worried concerns of the old-time
friend
who has seen the raptures of previous lovers?
Does
he recall on how to take a risk, or is this
unmistakably
familiar?
There's
shouting and bickering, so much so
that I
internally scream it all to silence.
Nonetheless
there is a continued thought,
ringing
like the tick of a grandfather clock:
I loved the way he kissed me.
