Wednesday, 06 January 2010

  • Lonely Isn't a Good Color on Me


    The only
    butterflies
    that I like
    Are the kind I get
    when you Kiss me.

    At four in the morning, after spending two hours acting fifteen years old again. Touching, but not to much. Close, but not close enough. My nose might press into your cheek when I laugh a little too hard, but our lips lie slightly out of line. "What are you thinking about?" Of course you know. But I say something that is not the curve of your face and is not the way your hair falls across your forehead and is not the heat of your hand pressed against my lower back. But it is.

    I know all of the motions like the back of my hand. And yet, it all feels new again.

    I'll pretend like I don't know how this ends.

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