I dreamt we kissed.

It wasn’t anything cinematic,
only that our heads were bent
in conversation,
and you pressed your lips to mine.

It was cold, the kiss.
And I felt the pressure in my sleep.

The pressure pulling us together,
the sensation of your lips on me,
and the stress when waking
that it was all a dream.

Brown sneakers kicked off
haphazardly between the wall and desk
look like you stepped from them
and into my bed,
as you pulled my cotton dress over head
and I worked the catch on your belt.

Sheets twisted and blankets un-tucked
illustrate in simplest truth
the way we tossed and turned all night
until harsh song roused us from sleep
as I kissed your shoulder,
and you played with the dimples in my back.

The way your jeans lie
on the back of the chair,
thrown there this morning
in an attempt to clean up last night,
as we slept past alarms
and said good morning too long.

Your red toothbrush rests
on the bathroom counter,
a blob of calcified tooth paste in the sink
marks where you forget to run water
as I applied mascara
and you tied your tie.

Keys fished from pockets
lock the front door as we exit
sealing the night behind us
in the tiny space where we closed our eyes
as you told me secrets
and I opened my lips to capture them.

In the busy station Men and Women,
sit motionless, like statues curled in on themselves,
their bodies bent and twisted in, on the long benches
grotesquely alone.

They are wrapped in the protective cloak
of Honey, don’t stare
or That poor soul…mind dear, not too close.

Hours go on,
counted down on the great white face of time
keepings trains on track and men on schedule.  

What is it, to walk among the living dead?

Fallen angels with broken wings,
tucked beneath them,
silently waiting in the stillness of the busy hall.

All at once I pity and envy you,
when you talk about
your town halls and 4th of July's.
When you know the streets, every
building and who lives there.

Small town America.

Math and Mouth, are so easily confused,
when I'm speaking to you.

I want to say Math, but my eyes on your Mouth
make the vowels all switched about.

So I say the wrong thing about my Mouth Final,
and I pray to god that no one noticed.

But I have a strange feeling, that you did,
because your lips twitched.

I didn't like her as soon as I met her.
She'd known you an hour, and said your name wrong.
But she was pretty and little, and blonde.
You smiled, and charmed, and I rolled my eyes.

For Christ sake.

While you were out for an hour or two,
I knocked on M's door with a bottle of Sprite
from the vending machine downstairs.

Let's toast.

I unscrewed the lid and she uncorked the bottle.
She didn't ask why, just nodded and agreed.

**** yes.

Fizz, fizz. Glug, glug.

There's a mug in my hand, and I'm drinking it up.
Tastes like sweet soda, not at all like wine.
We're sitting in silence, when I start telling M
I don't mind, really I don't.

At least you're over him.

She pours, and I swallow,
the bubbles pop in my mouth.  

I hear you come home, little blondie in tow.

Have a nice night?

I ask loudly, standing too close.
You're toeing your shoes off, and I realize we're alone
in your room.

Go for it!

The wine whispers, urging me on.

Can I help you? I'm trying to change.

I want to do something, but what?
I'm scared you'll smell the sugary alcohol on my breath,
and dismiss whatever I do as a buzzed regret.
But I wouldn't regret it, what I see in my head.
I would go to you. I'd kiss you and kiss you,
till the wine wears off, and my lips are red
and a little bit raw.

Jesus.

That's what I would do.

I don't know if I'll ever be able to taste Sprite again,
and not feel the humid air against my skin,
or feel lighter just by the bubbles themselves.

Because when we mix it, on Friday nights,
with your secret wine, hidden in the shoe box,
it's a perfect time.