The first night that we made love,
we had no idea what we were making.
That those few short hours we spent
exploring each other’s bodies with fingertips
would leave lasting impressions on our hearts.
Our arms wouldn’t be the only things
we’d wrap tightly around each other --
our promises would also remain.
In the early morning, I fled to my room.
Sheets and heartstrings were too much
for me to tug on, so I left you there
a mess, covers pulled back,
corners perpetually un-tucked,
like secrets strewn about
from the night before.
You probably never made your bed,
but you‘d made up your mind.
To you, I was better than sliced bread,
hotter than asphalt in July,
tougher than the nails I drove between us.
I wasn’t the love you needed to make then.
I was too busy making like with anyone else,
But you never saw that side of me.
We didn’t know what we had started,
an idle engine, aching to go full throttle.
with neither of us seated behind the wheel.
You were on stage, mid-pirouette,
and I was balancing a chip on my shoulder.
If only I’d dropped the handle,
the chip may have fallen away with it.
and you’d found me for the first time
with a steady hand.
It’s been years since I’ve gazed upon you,
But I remember the warmth of your smile.
You’re like a lazy Sunday, no pants required.
A rainbow, without the uncertainty of rain.
I’ve made a lifetime of mistakes
in twenty-eight years, but the only one
I regret is not chasing after you the night
you told me you wanted to be alone.
I know now that you didn’t mean it.