That day, under the
yellow lights, the world moved
slowly in circles and
you looked so beautiful.
We were piss drunk, my head
was spinning but not enough
not enough to wreck,
to make me reckless enough
to kiss you.
But I almost did.
I touched your face
you blushed, I laughed -
it was poetry. Unblemished
and ripe for anarchy, as
we were that night.
It would all go down in history
after that. We made love
under the Christmas tree that year
and you gave me a sweater with
my initials on it. I learned to cook.
You never learned to fold your
shirts. You broke my heart.
Six Christmases later, we would
send each other cards from other sides
of the world. Seven Christmases
later, I would see you with someone
else
and wonder if there was anything
left to feel by then.
All love stories are tragedies, but
but now, in this moment
I am too scared to kiss you.
The night is yellow, you blush,
we are pure. We are drunk and
full of promise.
YOU ARE READING
Doux
Poetrythe walls with blued body scents soft on the skin, the curtains drawn and a lover asleep close by. ...
