The magnetic field that only existed where our skin accidentally touched, every nerve thundering with thirst. The convincing heaviness in your hands. Our synchronized breaths underneath the television static, the out-dated couch, the old blanket your mom made, the scar above my knee and then total darkness. Street lights shamed me and boys passed in fast cars. Every night I learned how to walk myself home and why I hate the feel of velvet and the taste of club soda. All the pretty girls got rides, all the sad girls smoked slims on the sidewalk. And here I thought I was special because you left the porch light on.
Posted on: Wed, 05 Mar 2014 07:04:37 +0000
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