You’re drunk, I’m sober.
I should’ve just waved hello and goodbye as I passed you on my way back from a bar.
I should’ve let you wonder why.
I shouldn’t let you think you still have me.
But I stopped, and we’re walking, in the darkness of 8 pm,
your friends long gone.
And the smile on my face confirms just how much I fell for you.
“I’m sorry about my text yesterday, I didn’t intend for it to come off mean,” I say.
“Don’t be sorry. It’s fine. I know.”
We continue walking,
your feet stumbling yet springy
and my hand melts into yours.
I apologize for that too and you say, “We’re just so comfortable with each other,”
and you grasp it tighter.
And now we’re in front your place,
and I lean against the street pole and embrace you.
I shouldn’t be doing this, I tell myself,
but I’m willingly welcoming your kisses on my forehead and cheek,
hugging me tightly, telling me, “You’re so intoxicating to me.”
You’re drunk, I’m sober,
and I fear if you’ll remember this in the morning you’ll regret it,
because I know you don’t want to lead me on, you don’t want to hurt me,
but I don’t care.
I want to enjoy this moment,
a moment that proves what this is is real,
that you feel it,
my day-old fear that I made it up is now just as far gone as your friends into the darkness,
and that in itself soothes me, makes me feel calm and understood.
The jersey softness of your shirt,
the way your shoulders curve muscularly,
what I always tell you is my favorite part of your body,
the way scruff has returned to your cheeks.
I can’t hold back.
I shouldn’t give you this attention,
I shouldn’t let you in,
but I’m doing it.
Because I need to feel you,
your emotional connection to me,
your attraction to me.
I need the confirmation that it is real for you too.
And for that, it is all worth it.