Alcohol tastes like watermelons
and it reminds me of the sweetness
coated upon your lips.
Nothing left but a cold tile floor,
memories put under the spotlight
induced by a glass or two or three
of strawberry daiquiri
that bring the breeze back to me.

The feeling of the wind
cascading through the rolled down windows
of your '08 Honda,
and the goosebumps on my legs
that you smooth over like bubble wrap.
Your hand is warm,
a little clammy as the temperature hits 75
and your lead foot pushes 95.
You're wearing aviators and a white shirt,
2 buttons closed, 3 following an Open Door Policy —
the color matches my porcelain skin,
and The Temptations sing
the closest thing we'll ever have to
a first dance.
My fingers waltz around your palm,
the only parts of our bodies
following the reckless pursuit
of our minds.
My love for you just grows and grows
You smirk and set free the adorable school boy laugh I fell in love with;
you look over at me,
but I can't focus on your singing voice —
oh-so-beautiful to my ears,
but oh-so-lacking in talent.
This —
wow.
This, is the first time you've ever
told me you loved me.

My hair doesn't get kisses from the wind
when I feel trapped inside.
The fruit isn't as sweet as your charm.
The wine isn't as deep as your grey blue eyes.
The adventure to the bottom of glasses,
the bottom of bottles,
isn't as captivating
as getting lost with you.