Romance Under Fire Sparks
I remembered walking in your room, two pairs entangled on the floor and bed, respectively, and you were giggling quite suggestively. You peered up from the pile of blankets, said 'hello' and smiled wide, you knew my girlfriend of the time, and I nodded and paid no mind. Though now I've given you residence in every dream.
There was drama and threats of knives to wrists. A fragile mix of obvious lust and lustful secrets. So I offered you my shoulder, and you took it nightly. And every now and then, you'd lean forward and let your fingers graze my hand.....ever so slightly. And I haven't felt that in years. You broke a numbness, and how I can't explain. But you refrained from revealing any depth of feeling beyond that minute touch.
You could feel the tension in the room that night. It was a thick sense of longing for something that I had been unable to reach for that whole summer. I'm always the sort who considered wit and charm a sport, but I found my speeches getting dumber every time, until a sentence was a ladder too tall to climb. I left in a haste, and oh my, what a waste, for maybe I wouldn't be speaking of it a chance I didn't take.
I had lied, lied a million times. I lied, you're so my type.
The down side was a momentary victory-we might have kissed, but a cut to the quick might have been better than this aftermath of undeniable failure and regret. We were both drunk, you see, one on alcohol, one on a fading and hopeless dream, of ever seeing himself happy again. As the fire burned in the background, I touched my lips to yours. And even when you reek of cigarettes, you still taste like gold. You promised me I wasn't a drunk thing. And you promised me it was the real thing. But your promises don't mean a damn thing, when you're actions say something entirely different. And that made the difference. So much for forever when I can't get a day.
There was drama and threats of knives to wrists. A fragile mix of obvious lust and lustful secrets. So I offered you my shoulder, and you took it nightly. And every now and then, you'd lean forward and let your fingers graze my hand.....ever so slightly. And I haven't felt that in years. You broke a numbness, and how I can't explain. But you refrained from revealing any depth of feeling beyond that minute touch.
You could feel the tension in the room that night. It was a thick sense of longing for something that I had been unable to reach for that whole summer. I'm always the sort who considered wit and charm a sport, but I found my speeches getting dumber every time, until a sentence was a ladder too tall to climb. I left in a haste, and oh my, what a waste, for maybe I wouldn't be speaking of it a chance I didn't take.
I had lied, lied a million times. I lied, you're so my type.
The down side was a momentary victory-we might have kissed, but a cut to the quick might have been better than this aftermath of undeniable failure and regret. We were both drunk, you see, one on alcohol, one on a fading and hopeless dream, of ever seeing himself happy again. As the fire burned in the background, I touched my lips to yours. And even when you reek of cigarettes, you still taste like gold. You promised me I wasn't a drunk thing. And you promised me it was the real thing. But your promises don't mean a damn thing, when you're actions say something entirely different. And that made the difference. So much for forever when I can't get a day.