*inspired by the song "Lover's Spit" by Broken Social Scene.
Golden red, your arms were a sinewy fence around
my form as we sat on the fire escape overlooking
a schizophrenic town.
Your lips tickled my cheek and I stroked the back
of your head, twisting
my fingers in your burnt wheat-colored strands.
"Remember when we used to get excited over
the smallest things," I asked.
"Like kissing awkwardly and
stumbling through doorways,
dragging in the scent of fresh
cut grass and angel's sweat?"
"Yeah," you said. "But let's play it out again,
baby, before Philadelphia
pokes a hole through our stage,
let's steal the night's innocence
like we did the first time with condoms,
shrinking violets, and last minute promises."
"You're insane," I whispered when you pulled me up.
"But what the hell?"
For once, we were both vulnerable in
the chill of an Anglican dusk.
Rustling fabric, wet lashes
and turning bodies on Italian leather;
nothing could touch us as we came hard and fast,
crawling inside each other's skin.
When we awoke, we found lover's spit streaked
across the bathroom mirror and
you wouldn't let me help clean it up because
you said I'd miss my flight but
I wanted you to hold me down
on the bamboo floor because
Philadelphia could go up in smoke and I'd
still have your bourbon taste in my mouth.
But that's not how the story goes..
We're together because we want to be,
not because the world tries to stop us.
And you used to say that romance was
made for imaginary princesses and
flying boys, not for real people.
"Parisian tables and lipstick stains
on crumpled up menus," you scoffed.
"That's what it comes down to."
But now I know you watch me
sleep and count my freckles in the dark.
With your medallion in one hand
and a dufflebag in the other,
I stood in the hallway with
a goodbye melting on my tongue like a bad party drug.
But you just shook your head,
your vintage tiger eyes glowing like fireside chocolate
and said, "Baby, if you come back to me,
we'll find another way to murder the stars."