Headlights
Headlights
Your hand is warm and light against my skin. Lips meet to form passionate swells of emotion with each stroke of your soul against mine.
Your hair falls over your eyes, enveloping you with a dark halo.
Hands fumble, feeling for an anchor, something real.
Headlights glare across our haven, our sanctuary of cracked leather and soda cans. Sweat feels like heaven against my lips, making me think of whispered words and moonlight.
Heat, and love, and gasps for breath fill the air, windows fogging over, and every cell of my being reaches out to yours. I can almost see the sinews of my heart connecting with yours, winding and twisting to form one heart, one soul.
Maybe I’m coming undone. Maybe every time your lips graze my skin, another piece of my heart pulls away from my chest to rest in the comfort of your hands.
I remember the first time I ever told you that I loved you. We were in your bedroom, sitting on the floor. The only light came from the windows, turning everything gold as the sun went down. Papers and plastic cups littered the floor; loose change and dirty laundry lounged together in each crack and crevice. I spelled it out for you there on my hands, holding it up for you to see. I did not speak, in fear the words would make me tremble, in fear that you didn’t want to hear them. Somehow, the distance between us ceased to exist, and the only distance left was the layers of skin that separated our souls. The words smeared, but the impact remained.
I remember the first time we kissed. We were there on the floor, cuddling close. Snow was falling outside, patting softly against the window. Our hands were entwined, your hair brushing against my cheek. I pressed gentle fingers against your neck, our eyes meeting for just a moment before I broke through the silence with a heart shattering kiss that echoed through our souls for miles. Every ounce of love I had ever felt poured out in the one kiss, colliding with the love that you gave in return, mingling and exchanging until we were left with my heart in your hands, and yours in mine.
But now, as we lay here, with headlights falling over us, curled beneath a blanket, our sneakers shoved beneath the seat and the only thing keeping us warm is the way you kiss me, the way body wraps around mine, I feel that love from all of those years ago. I feel the way your heart skips a beat whenever I kiss the hollow of your throat. I feel the way you shudder when ever I run a gentle finger down your chest.
We won’t go home tonight. We won’t lie alone in separate beds, in separate houses, in separate towns. We have these moments together, in the dark, with the only hint of reality lying in the glow of the headlights that streak against the windshield, revealing my hand in yours, and our lips acting as passageways from one heart, my heart, to yours.
Your hair falls over your eyes, enveloping you with a dark halo.
Hands fumble, feeling for an anchor, something real.
Headlights glare across our haven, our sanctuary of cracked leather and soda cans. Sweat feels like heaven against my lips, making me think of whispered words and moonlight.
Heat, and love, and gasps for breath fill the air, windows fogging over, and every cell of my being reaches out to yours. I can almost see the sinews of my heart connecting with yours, winding and twisting to form one heart, one soul.
Maybe I’m coming undone. Maybe every time your lips graze my skin, another piece of my heart pulls away from my chest to rest in the comfort of your hands.
I remember the first time I ever told you that I loved you. We were in your bedroom, sitting on the floor. The only light came from the windows, turning everything gold as the sun went down. Papers and plastic cups littered the floor; loose change and dirty laundry lounged together in each crack and crevice. I spelled it out for you there on my hands, holding it up for you to see. I did not speak, in fear the words would make me tremble, in fear that you didn’t want to hear them. Somehow, the distance between us ceased to exist, and the only distance left was the layers of skin that separated our souls. The words smeared, but the impact remained.
I remember the first time we kissed. We were there on the floor, cuddling close. Snow was falling outside, patting softly against the window. Our hands were entwined, your hair brushing against my cheek. I pressed gentle fingers against your neck, our eyes meeting for just a moment before I broke through the silence with a heart shattering kiss that echoed through our souls for miles. Every ounce of love I had ever felt poured out in the one kiss, colliding with the love that you gave in return, mingling and exchanging until we were left with my heart in your hands, and yours in mine.
But now, as we lay here, with headlights falling over us, curled beneath a blanket, our sneakers shoved beneath the seat and the only thing keeping us warm is the way you kiss me, the way body wraps around mine, I feel that love from all of those years ago. I feel the way your heart skips a beat whenever I kiss the hollow of your throat. I feel the way you shudder when ever I run a gentle finger down your chest.
We won’t go home tonight. We won’t lie alone in separate beds, in separate houses, in separate towns. We have these moments together, in the dark, with the only hint of reality lying in the glow of the headlights that streak against the windshield, revealing my hand in yours, and our lips acting as passageways from one heart, my heart, to yours.