as we rushed to catch the last subway
in the absolute ice-crush of winter,
you pulled me back up the
narrow,
rickety,
drafty stairs.
the pressure of your hand
prevented me
from cartwheeling away
from you.

earlier,
i asked
to taste the wine
from your lips.
i was fitting myself
into a different person.
i was being who i wanted.
intoxicating vixen. all those x’s
surrounded by daintiness
and manners.
all my want soaking through
my shell of nonchalance when i saw you.
i thought if you saw that,
you saw me.

you acquiesced to my request
easily.
stretched time
until it became honey,
stayed still
until i could see
the splinters in your eyes,
made promises
until you no longer
wanted to keep them.

wine can be like that.
you can wake up the next morning
unwilling to accept the last night.
that night,
i was unwilling to accept that
things might be different
the next morning.

and they were.
every day after,
i think about your lips,
malbec stained.
i think about how
i didn’t fall down those stairs,
but i still felt the drop
in my stomach
and the way
you kept me standing.

Photo credit: Sam Rosenbaum on Flickr

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