You picked me up in your old classic car, swearing your mother had no idea and we had to rush, but we were so high from our kisses and from the wind swimming through our hands, we forgot all about the scars on my skin and marks on your face, lost in wonderland just the way you said it would be when I brought you home and took you to the attic, reading you stories about fruits like apples (we laughed so hard because you thought I was drunk) I was only drunk off you, comparing you to the bottle of scotch standing in my father’s bar or the shots of ***** your brother used to take because he never played with youth the way you played with my heart.