Once you drove up in your 1977 Mercedes, I could feel the hurried pulsation of a weary heart over the clattered groan of your engine. Clambering into my seat, I folded in on myself, too timid to fold into you instead.
Creamed leather seats on a rusted turquoise shell I look to the back, expecting some residue of the last lipstick crush that you set fire to. Instead, I found $1 books from the library and your worn regalia that I would’ve stolen and kept as filthy souvenirs. A deep inhale of your burnout sheesha that bobby pinned to tired marrow in my bones -
I would’ve taken you right then and there.
Instead, we played coy with the thin fabric of a relit friendship and talked poetry and music over a ceramic bowl of coconut chicken curry.
But all I romanced was a clustered cocktail of my favorite things:
The drag of my curious fingertips underneath your prickled jaw. This fever building as I curl into your arms and the corrupted graze of your hungry lips in the groove of my neck.
Temptation at its finest. Such promise between two starved pilgrims But the descent down to the deep V between hips is a sweet flame that can easily burn you and leave pin pricked stains. So its a good thing that I let you go.