He kissed me like he was afraid of my mouth. He knew of the knife I kept hidden between my teeth, but he didn't know I only use it when my voice gets loud and I can hear my heartbeat in my ears.
I can hear my heartbeat now, but that's only because my hands are palm up next to my face as I lay back on the bed. I stare at him, left eye, right eye, and back again, but I can't tell which one is lying, or if they're even lying at all.
It's funny how someone can look at you and make you think back to the time you were seventeen and freezing in the back seat of a sedan because you knew how to take your clothes off, but you forgot how to keep yourself warm.
But you're not seventeen, and this isn't January, and you don't have to wonder if his finger tips want to keep you or if they just want to see how long they can stay on your ribcage without getting burned.
Either way, he kisses you again on the mouth, and once on the cheek, but not on your collarbone because he isn't sure if it's his to take or not.
And for some reason, you fall in love with him. Not for his lips, his fingertips, or his breath on your skin, but just because you want to belong to someone for a little while.
You want to let him think that he can map your caverns and carve initials in the mountains of your spine and maybe even let him believe that he's at home in the sea waters that stand between you, not knowing how deep they really are.
"I can swim," he says.
"But can you drown?" I ask.
