Your flannel shirt was boyish— you wore
it half unbuttoned, exposing a smooth, flat
chest, doused in ink. Your jeans were pure sex,
low slung, ripped in the right places.
Brown hair, cut short, brown eyes piercing
in ways that left me unable to say no.
You had such a softness about you, unlike
anything I knew or understood.
We secretly interlocked our fingers
when no one was looking, fiery kisses stolen
in the outside stairwell of that shit-hole
where we would meet.
We talked about packing what little
of life we had saved, loading down
my dusty Plymouth and driving
to the west coast, unencumbered
by any ties that meant something to either
of us. If there had ever been a time
that I would've shoved everything I owned
into a suitcase and left, it was then.
It pains me to think of us: warm, free,
wrapped up in each other so tightly that every
bit of the world swirling around outside
could never keep us apart.