I would have loved to have kissed you through your polo shirt, to have felt your leather chest on the palms of my hand, get my tongue caught in the feeling of yours. I bet you would have held my face, one of those guys, who cradles cheekbones like pottery. I imagined us, feet tangling in sheets as we wrestle each other in a small bed pinning arms against the headboard, pulling ribs closer to the other so they can connect in their respective grooves. I would have loved to have played catch with your smile, circle your eyes with my own, nibble your shoulder as we collide. I would have loved to,
but I'm still being haunted by ghosts in good underwear who gave me more than just a body for a month or two. By boys who swore that the time wasn't right now, but it was coming as fast as it could. I've been sliced open by flea market promise rings with crooked diamonds, and I would have loved to have used you to stitch me back together. But you are just a boy with your parents wallet, sweetness baked into tight khaki's and some really cool vans. You are not the remedy I attempt to find in Bacardi bottles or a blank document or even cups of tea. You are too good for this part of me. I'm sorry for teasing you with my jeans and the bit of skin I let peak between my belt and the rest of my blouse. Imagine what that would have felt like on your belly while the November breeze crept through your open window? I would have loved to.