"You're wasting gas,"
you whispered into my neck after
idling in your driveway amongst
the midnight air as our breath
began to fog the glass
"I don't care," I wanted to say,
no, scream because all I knew then
was that it was far past my curfew
and my father would most likely
rip my *** when I got home
but I didn't care
one because I was with you and two
because I found more of a home in your heart sheltered beneath your ribcage and neighbors
with your arteries than I did in his house
Yet I couldn't manage to make my mouth move
Words fell like fireflies dying
on the tip of my tongue as you drew
your fingertips along the surface of
my skin and part of me felt like if this
went on any longer I might explode
Like I was a stick of TNT and every time
you touched me a spark was lit and eventually
my heart would pump itself into amnesia
Leaving you and me and all of our beings
intertwined in it's wake like some twisted
train wreck that led railroad tracks to your lips
And you moved your hands to my hips and all
I could think was that I didn't know it was possible
to fall in love with someone's fingertips and
memorize the way their breathing shifts
when they sleep
And you made me feel like a ship that had been meaning to sink but could never quite
get caught in the right storm
But right now I was sailing through an ocean of torn clothes and warm skin and I couldn't stop myself from thinking that you were an ocean I wouldn't mind drowning in.