First Base: Innocent words turn into gentle hands moving slowly yet rapidly from the stick shift to her thighs, wondering if leaning in would be moving too quickly or just the fact that maybe she wasn't ready to be moving at all.

Second Base: They're in his room now, both of which don't even know how they ended up there.
It's quiet though,
she liked quiet,
it reminded her of her childhood.
She observes the room like a rotation fan set to low,
slowly,
yet patently.
She notices all the pens & papers scattered all over his desk. His laptop was accidentally left open. It seems to be some sort of unfinished piece she finally manages to realize; she gets up from the squeaky bed & attacks it with grace, it reads:
"             *Feathers
      Her skin looked raw,
But the kind of raw
       You could still devour &
Not get sick from.
       I loved her, yet I didn't
Even know what
       Her favorite book was,
Or if she liked
        Sushi as much as I did.
I don't know if
        I will ever be the same
Again after laying
        My eyes on her.
I couldn't imagine
        Laying my hands
On her thighs or
        Kissing her while she
Was smiling.
         I wish I could tell
Her that..."
He slams the macbook shut at an attempt to stray as far away as possible from any further embarrassment.
She was frozen.
As was he.
He knew deep down inside of him he wanted her to read that, because he was never good at expressing his feelings face to face & maybe that's okay; but somewhere else trapped inside of him said that just because she's in your room alone with you does not mean in any way that she will ever remotely feel the same way towards you.
But a wise man once told him that if you're alive & well, & you're not doing everything that terrifies you, then what would be the point of living; & he now lives his life off of that minute & a half conversation with that homeless man outside of the starbucks that is right down the street from his house.
He went for it, he took flight of his life & his actions & went in for the thing he wanted most; *her.
The roughness in their innocent kisses would have been Rated R from the way you could taste the passion & it had the potential to make every bone in your body evaporate & leave you with nothing but your memories of what it used to be like to be able to taste.

Third Base: Clothes turned from magnets to grasshoppers in the matter of seconds. Everything was a fast paced blur. Skin was being ripped open, yet no blood was being ejected. No amount of candles could cover up the scent of sweat that was polluting the room. Songs are made from the sounds that were being created in this studio. The only thing keeping them apart was their own skin, & even that could barely do the job.

Fourth Base: They layed there, in awe; not thinking about the homework they hadn't finished, or that his parents probably heard the entire thing, or at the fact that the world had never moved so quickly in the same moments that time was in the midst of a game of freeze tag. No more worries about the future. Only love for what was going on in this moment. The way she curled up to his body reminded him that love can only come from the light. Her dark lipstick that was stamped all over his body reminded him that only beautiful things can come out of the dark.

I've seen
               Jesus
               at the bottom of
                          whiskey bottles.
We've talked
                  about the universe,
                                    and death,
And he's given me the whole speech,

                        And I decided I'd better just
Sleep it off.

The waitress sends signals in neon code,
through Christmas illuminations stretching across
the car-park, and straight into my ***** orange.

She laughs through awkward platitudes,
and all the beards that comment on her skirt.
She's working to make a living,
somewhere down the line.

I watch as she scribbles poetry on old receipts,
eyes glossing over the ketchup stains,
and into the passing of the moment.

I hope that she is writing of escape;
of better times and better sleep.
She will smash the glass ceiling,
and save us from the greenhouse effect.

Baritone singers lure her into art,
into the promise of soft-hearted men
with a resilient chest.

The waitress waits for a signal
to restart her life. There will be flares
on the horizon, there will be new lovers
leaning on their cars in the sun.

She will finally get to sit.
She will thank the waiter for her drink.