Injection

Strange how we missed the connection.
Needles never troubled me—
childhood illness passed me by,
a faint shadow in the schoolroom air.

But words—
they slip like secret notes
folded in a desk,
or whispers caught behind a door.

You are that childhood romance,
immature, unfinished,
yet irresistible in its longing—
still wondering
who, what, I want.

Music trembles through the air,
and roses bloom too early,
their scent drifting
into every moment of us.

Each phrase you breathe
is an injection—
a slow pulse under my skin,
a fever rising to my lips,
a sweetness I surrender to
again,
and again