You picked me up
in your broken down
Cherokee truck.
Drove through the night
with me sleeping
in the seat at your side.
You paid for a room
with your paycheck
and change from the cup holder.
Woke me up,
fiddled with the key
in the cold air and dim light
of the hotel's fickle lock.
Walked me inside,
closed the curtains,
all the blinds.
Picked me up,
laid me down on the bed,
and kissed me slowly.
Not even giving me a moment
to comprehend.
Pushed my hair
out of my face
with your hands
that smelled like dirt and mulch.
Laughing at how soft
my skin was,
******* up the sweetness
in between my teeth.
Softly you drew away
the straps of my dress,
and tore off
your beaten work shirt,
blowing your breath
on my neck.
Pulled me up
with the back of your wrist
pressing me closely
against you.
You tugged the string
from the single light bulb
that lit up our room,
and clicked it off
So we could make love
in the darkness.

And I'll savor
every second.
Because come morning
you won't remember me.
You won't want
to remember this.
How you broke down,
needed me.
And I,
I won't want to remember
that sometimes
I break down,
and need you too.