She says I taste like concert sweat
I lean in and she leans away
I think I just miss the pressing of lips
(Anyone would do right now, but-)
There's enough guilt weighing on each shoulder
My fingertips have gone blue
Our foreheads kiss
I flinch awake
Spoons, forks and kitchen knives
I'm homesick, and I've forgotten where I live
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment