Its 1am and Im searching for you in the bottom of every bottle.
He's asking me about my poetry but how am I supposed to tell him that my poems are for you and I wont stop writing until Im tangled in your bed sheets for the rest of my life?
He is sweet and polite but he doesnt wrap his hands around my neck and the way you do.
There's something so tragically beautiful in the honesty slipping from my finger tips, because while he's tracing my spine I am consumed with the taste of your skin on my lips and the feeling of your hands against my hip bones.
Its 1am and im wondering if you're searching for me in the unfamiliarity of others, hoping you might smell my scent on her collarbones or feel my skin under her dress.
Out of all the boys ive kissed, you were my favourite by the way you looked me in the eyes with those hands clasped around my neck, no fear of squeezing too hard.
Its 1am and he's holding my hand but you're strangling my heart and these words are seeping out of my skin. No one makes me bleed like you
only you, always
you



alanna