We were fire.
High on words;
and on the molten flame
of the touch of the tips of your icy fingers.
Moving my hands over the map of your body
over every inch of your face,
each breath whispering over each inch:
Mine. Mine. Mine.
Like tickets from a drunk traffic cop.
Drunk on you. Your smell. Your words. Your smile.
The feeling of your hair between my fingers.
The warmth of your chest
and the flutter of your heart.
Losing our sanity,
one syllable at a time.
The hows and whys,
the could-have-beens slowly turning to
could-bes in my head.
Always been six feet from the edge,
both of us. Destroying ourselves,
our minds, our pasts.
Today, it’s six feet from an edge
we don’t mind falling off from.
Do we?
Hope: worst enemy, best friend.
Dancing on the edge, courting the unknown.
How could you have me like this?
But as they say,
“What if I fall?
Oh but my darling, what if you fly?”
