You came to my first poetry reading.

You wore a tie – which I know, now, is not your typical style. I hadn’t kissed you yet, but I knew that I wanted to. You told me: “I have something for you,” and when we stepped out into the cool night air, you pulled a red carnation from your car and an EP of a band I never heard of but I listen to now and think of you.

I met you again at a speakeasy and we said we’d write together, but I ended up feeling nervous from your wet eyes on me.  I read what you wrote instead — the black and white composition notebook you pulled from a backpack you weren’t quite sure about — and I couldn’t help but feel more inspired from your printed lettering.

You walked me to my car and kissed me with a sincere sweetness outside of Sherwin Williams. All that paint and still, I couldn’t imagine the explosion of color I just encountered.

We went on another date and when I opened the door from my apartment, you were standing there with a dozen red roses in hand and a grin on your face. You were leaning up against the railing of the concrete steps and straightened up as I neared. “Wow, you look beautiful,” you told me, arm held out for me to clasp. I knew that night was the first of many.

The sheets in my bed twisted in the company of you and I knew that I had never been kissed like that before. My back arched, toes curled, legs wrapped around you, not getting close enough but pressing as hard as I possibly could into your skin. Your breath matched mine in the panted heat of locked lips.

We tumbled through the sunken cities of Egypt, keeping afloat with the softness of stolen touch in a stillness only museums and churches have to offer. We found the modern art and chuckled across the room at the other, marveling in the artistry of locked, laughing eyes. A silent film revealed a city I once lived in from a time I never knew. The bench we shared was a newfound home for us both.

You came to my second poetry reading.

And I knew that it was one of many.

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