He gently stokes the skin along my neck.
He does it in a way that was never meant to be erotic
but rather like a father trying to sooth his child to sleep.
He kisses the top of my head to remind me once again that he is here.
That I am here.
It’s easy to forget every now and then.
I press my head deeper upon his chest.
Here things seem slow and calm and real.
He moves his face toward mine and grazes his lips upon my forehead.
Then my cheek,
and pauses at my lips.
He glides his finger over my mouth and I pout so we’re closer.
Sometimes skin to skin still doesn’t feel like enough.
His lips meet mine and they dance slowly,
In a way I didn’t think it was possible for me to move.
He tastes of the wine we had just finished
but I guess I was still craving it.
Damaged isn’t the right word, but it’s the first thing that comes to mind.
She’s the girl at the bar who lets others push through her, she’s decided she’s not worthy of attention first.
That’s why she sleeps with married men and doesn’t mind being the last resort when all your friends bailed on a night out.
So I’ll sit with her as she waits for the train and give her cigarettes and gently graze her thigh.
She believes she’s easily replaced but if you know anyone with eyes as sad as hers than that’s enough proof that this world is absolute shit.
When I first met her, reading alone in some underrated coffeehouse in an area of town you don’t want to spend too much time in, I could have sworn she was well into her twenties.
She’s just a kid who grew up too fast.
Perhaps she could have been beautiful if this world hadn’t have been so cold. Now she spends her days only half alive and he nights so hazed with drugs and drinks and men so strange she won’t have many left.
So she sits and reads novels about lives crueler than her own, smokes mint cigarettes so death can taste a little sweeter, and will pretend like she’s something special.