but to fall to the rocks,
to the sea,
is a poem."
a moment so short it was like a still frame in a three hour film, but this is no movie. your lipstick could have burned it's shape through skin, left behind on my bones for an anthropologist to tinker with, musing about their meanings. i fixed your jacket hood, as it was crooked and out of place, it meant i fucking like you (or maybe like, i wanna fuck you), although both of us were too drunk to notice it at the time. the weather conditions proved foul that night which made dismissing the closeness of our hands as we walked home quite easy, perhaps it was just for the sake of warmth. inside between cigarettes you tucked your toes up under my thigh, but maybe the room was just cold as well, you see it was still spring and i had left the window open. but we stood belly to belly and were able to trap some heat between ourselves, between my chest and your fragrance (i caught a hint of it at a party recently, it was not you). with this warmth we could have grown an elephant from an apple seed. and like a shitty self help book i will always remember that we are the architects of our own something er other or however it goes and no kiss was wasted.
