firefly crimes

poetic_star's picture

There was too much power
in the air when we met.
It tasted like salt and
stuff little boys are made of;
plastic yellow and blue cars,
candy wrappers and lined paper.
You wrapped a hand around
the back of my neck,
made me feel the warmth
of sex and freedom;
hard kisses under a streetlamp,
in front of a church
just for the sake of showing
how bad-ass we were.

Oh boy, what did I get myself into?
Another evening of misdemeanors with you,
burning scrapes on my spine,
pink t-shirts and car doors slamming as we
ran into the birthday glitter
shadows of a homophobic tidal wave city.
You drew me close, asked
if I was okay and rubbed
a hand slowly over my injured flesh.
I fell into your chest because
you were the closest thing to
safety that I knew at the time,
but lover, your heart was pounding
like a wicked midsummer night's drum.
And I was too out of breath and upset
to notice the green glistening in your
eyes like dead hummingbird wings.

I just wanted someone to look at me
and understand my rage completely,
while you needed an escape from
all the monsters in your head.
But nothing could scream our
words louder than a gunshot
on 24th and Albany.

Lover, what am I supposed to say?
I threaded my fingers in your sandy
brown hair and let you suck me off
like a post-regret in the corner of
my once artistic bedroom.
But still, between my incoherent
ecstasy and scared mind racing,
I couldn't fully make sense
of your gravel and firefly lust.

It was cautiously unwanted;
the tightening of your hands
around my December hipbones
as my torso shook with a groan
that scratched my throat,
and I closed my eyes,
surrendering to something fun
and dusted with failed justice.

Oh if we'd only known, lover,
that the clouds weren't on our side,
that maybe we'd taken these
provocations a little too far
with boxing rings and your
lips teasing a path across
the inside of my collarbone.
Maybe we should've called it a night
when the whistle blew,
when the cops showed up,
when we realized that
nobody believes you when
you're lying on the ground,
floating in your own partner's blood.

Lover, forgive me but it's time
to make your exit now.
The wind is hitting my face,
a blend of spring and maple syrup.
It makes me feel like less of
a statement and more like a person.
And let's be honest, you were never
really capable of being so calm.