Your hands,

warm, wide, wanting, needing.
Around my own,

cool, small, wanting, needing.
Pull me close, deep inside,

and everything else fades.
Smoke rises,

curls from cigarettes

billows from the bonfire,
Warms my face.

Later,

your arms around me, whispered promises

that you are not as far gone as I seem to think.
Later,

your hands through my hair,

your lips on my neck,
In your arms there is knowledge,

that we are screwing each other over,

that everyone is staring,

that tomorrow, they will never let you live it down,

that maybe this is the truest we have ever been.

Even later,

when your words hush to murmur in my ear,


(they belong to us now, no one else)

"How do you feel about kissing?


"You?"

"Yeah."


"You're drunk." (because I have to know)


"If you really want to kiss me, ask me again when you're sober."
Cruel?

Maybe.
But self-preservation prevents me from caring enough

to plant one on you.


Your eyes are so blue.