clock in,

and skyscrapers loom over us like gods,
her sweaty hair mixes in with my own,
these hard hands are on my cold cheeks
burning hollows with their brazing heat.

she will never rest inside my heart.
i cannot shell out that privilege.

rain is threatening to pour outside,
ashen like my eyes threatening to burst
in the moments before a mouth finds mine,
and i start making poetry out of her kisses.

the opening line:

she tells me, quietly, that we’re just having fun,
but this isn’t fun.
this is my life’s work:
i am already making poetry out of her kisses.

and the body verses:

i, the poet in the corner of the room,
making words out of scratched skin and late night tears.
her, the girl unlucky enough to meet me,
giving me my poetry wrapped in her caress.

this isn’t fun.
at least i am making poetry out of her kisses.

whatever song is playing is unknown to me,
as much a stranger as her kisses are,
and i don’t want to know either.

but this is how i get my poetry:
from her touch.

she winds down from the drinks,
and i wind down from the smoke.

the ending,
soft and impactful:

she kisses me and i kiss her,
both for very different reasons,
and i write the ending the moment we begin:
i will make poetry out of her kisses,
and she will forget my name,

clock out.