i remember your sinewy frame as it curled itself around our recently bought cheap marlot, hours before these rib cages overlapped for the first time, and i could feel your heart and count its pace like seconds between the flash of lightening and the irreversible boom of a thunder strike. we become intertwined because we cant help ourselves, and so it goes, that remorseless havoc of our human calamity. an ever more reckless expansion of the futile human heart, which will certainly ruin me someday. i'm not as fucked up as i come across, but i still wish for you to make me want to be something better. i wish i hated, and i wish i fought, because loving leaves so many people emptier the morning after.
today i woke up to the smell of soggy grass soaking up the boulevards of snow outside my bedroom window. it is spring and our night was filled with the fluorescent bleeding chaos of the city lights in a warm breeze. i scrambled over your contour in the covers, strategically star fished as you wage a territorial war for my side of the bed (i have yet to figure out if this is a conscious decision on your part) and onto the balcony to touch the bottoms of my bare feet on the cold spring concrete. my building is old and beautiful and it still holds its ghosts, burning with the smell of home cooked meals, cigarettes, and infrequently used sticks of oddly named incense. i dig through my records for something spring like, and hop to the kitchen to grab a beer (it's past noon and we have the day off) i drink when i'm happy which can be dangerous as the thoughts of the humidity and history and the stardust we share burst with the promise of summer. i open the french doors wide to let the spring air in, and flip on the playstation three. "you're such a boy" you sigh as you squirm beneath the sheets, but with one eye peering out from beneath the covers you look intently at the second controller and quietly ask "what are you playing, can i play too?" and we start our day off with the tip of my nose pressed beneath yours, angled in such a way that i can squarely position your bottom lip between the both of mine.
it's unlikely these moments mean as much to you as they do to me. waiting in your parents driveway for the engine to warm up i dance the receiver between radio stations (trying to skip the christian rock) while we flirt with stories of unrequited love and indifference. your dad is shoveling the sidewalk and i wonder what he thinks. thirty minutes from now we'll stomp our snowy feet in the doorway of my apartment trying to disregard a fondness for sleepy moments and entanglement, and i'll try to ignore how your bum looks in those jeans; we still have friends to meet in the bar down the street. i drank four beers and a guinness, you had a shot of whiskey and three far-to-sweet mixed drinks. the sugar will give you a hangover tomorrow, but we have no plans anyway. your fingertips are cold from the walk home and we forgot to lock my front door. our safety lies in our thoughtlessness for anything but each other or more candidly it may be the model 1911 handgun which rests in a drawer (my grandfather traded some flight boots for it during the war) it is unloaded but it's the idea of its closeness, like ours, that matters most. earlier on, when i had picked you up in my parents borrowed car, your knees tilted slightly towards mine in the front seat and the thought of us fucking had made me cheerfully nervous for the better part of the day, our evening ends between two a.m. and three as our balmy lips touch pleasantly in a half awake state.
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