Music is playing in the background.
She is touching herself,
and your pupils dilate to the vibration of coming.
The place smells like a crying plant,
hanging from a ceiling that watches you both
when you are smoking off each other’s bodies;
                  and crying for the day to end.

You can’t help to hesitate
and rationalize your entire existence
while her heart is racing for a cure.
Skin is chapped but could use the touch of your hands.
Around this time, it is hard to count the rest
of your breaths.

The apartment is gathering your days off,
the mail you have not yet opened,
and how many times she has worn your ***** shirt.

It is past curfew
and you still don’t love her.