We met between lipstick stained
beer bottles on the blue fabric sofa.

Struggling to hide the reasons for splinters and chapped lips,
fear slides over my tongue as I started to split open again.

Warning signs hang from her neck
of the broken heart clogging the kitchen sink,

he'll follow the footprints of others
through the broken glass without a glance. (Keep yourself safe)

But then, Saturday night in the dimly lit stairway,
you tell me to take my time,

not everyone is the same.
You would wait and prove it to me.

You kissed my scars and gave me band-aids
for the cuts, that hadn't quite healed yet.

It's been five months since I've felt like I'm drowning,
and you're the reason I can breathe again.