If I am a roughly cobbled sidewalk,
You, to me, will be like feathered snowfall in the sleepy hours of the night,
When no one is awake to see or hear our rash decisions.
You may drape yourself around me, and in stillness I will let you fill and cover these ridges in brilliant, blistering white.
But when the warmth of morning comes, you will melt away to nothing.
I will let you, and I will remain – unchanged, unscathed, and only slightly colder.
I know my way home.
I’ve put one heavy foot in front of the other
and traced the same beaten path to my front door countless times.
Yet here I am, standing before you,
suddenly unsure how I’ll make it back in one piece.
I know the night is over.
We were wrong to think otherwise.
But you’re wearing a smile that makes me think of fireworks in July,
and who the fuck walks away from fireworks?
I have things to do in the morning.
I don’t have enough hours to sleep.
But your skin smells of all the love and yearning we both stifle each day,
so why can’t we just lay together tonight?
No, not tonight.
I will stand on my toes,
and expect a kiss on the mouth.
You will wrap me up in your arms,
and plant your lips on my forehead.
I will close the door behind me
and collapse in a heap of bliss and flushed cheeks,
and as I fall asleep to you bidding me good night,
I will fall in love with you,
and hopefully, you will too with me.
You are mistaken.
Winter can be blistering snowfall
against your tired bones
as much as it can be dead weight
inside your head.
You can be flushed pink with wine,
Sweating tiny pearls by the soot and fire
and still feel like you’re trudging
knee-deep in ice.
Infatuation bloomed in the spring,
Passion browned my flesh in the summer,
While I thought we’d stay golden in the fall,
The trees soon turned barren
as snow filled the prints you left in your wake.
I’d like to tell you
once and for all,
That once I have lain with you,
covered in the dying embers of passion,
You will cease to be ordinary.
Leave if you must,
but do so quietly.
Grant me the mercy of only remembering
the timbre of my name on your tongue,
Instead of the metal click of my door
locking behind you.
And just like that,
you’ve begun to warm
most of my grey mornings.
I’d stand outside with my hands wrapped
around an icy railing and think,
Thank heaven for you.
I no longer need fleece nor coffee
to know the day can only get better.
I glide through the room, my shoulders bare and glinting in amber candlelight.
My dress binds my senses together as my painted lips curl and part to please the crowd.
They flatter me, these people.
They tell me I’m beautiful, that I’m a sight to see.
But their words slip through my jeweled fingers like dust,
and once more I am empty.
Take away this sequined silk, and smear the color from my face.
Let this black mess of hair drape over my cold shoulders,
and let my rough hands come undone of luxury.
I want to be home and unabashedly miss you as I stand in rags in front of the stove.
It was here that I found myself only minutes after I had put on your musk-drenched shirt that morning.
It was here that I resolved you’d wake up to the smell of pancakes and infatuation.
It was here that you had wrapped your arms around me, my rags, and my flaws and clothed me in the word “beautiful”.
Standing here now, I suddenly remember,
It was here that I first believed it.
It was here that “beautiful” felt just right.
If there is one thing I would change
about that night you set my heart on fire,
I would have asked you to kiss gentler, softer.
For there will always be time to do things with abandon,
but never enough chances to take caution.
I love your sharp mouth and how it strings words together,
The fine ridges and pink of your lips, and that smirk on the corner.
But how I wish you had kissed me gentler.
The kind that takes its time,
The kind that wants to know me better.