When the lights cut out
and the air feels thin,
your lips are pressed to mine
I can barely breathe.

The clock ticks slowly,
your scent makes me dizzy.
"No one has to know," you whisper
I only moan in agreement.

Your hands travel down my spine;
calloused, rough --
there I know that, even in the dim light,
your eyes, dark and sharp, still look up to mine.

My lips move to your jaw,
palms wet, running down your chest with cold sweat;
a nervous glance to the door:
"Don't worry, no one will come."

You pull my hair lightly;
your touch is soft, yet careless.
I treat you as if you were the finest porcelain
when, to you, am I nothing but shattered glass --

--you just keep insisting to step on.

I moan aloud;
you desperately cover my mouth.
My voice hushes, "I'm sorry",
but my flesh screams for more.

Our clothes lay thrown across the floor
and I watch them, stoic, waiting
while you leave your last marks
upon my neck.

Now it's 3 in the morning, I'm laying by your side
With a sigh, I stand up and change my mind---
quietly shutting the door,
kissing you goodnight.

It's not right; I refuse to hide
upstairs, on your shelves,
just like the books
you have never finished to read.

Walking home, all alone
I tell myself to forgive,
forget,
and forbid.

Because I would rather
gather dust on the box of our past,
than on your shelf, waiting
on our future.