The First Storm of the Summer

I wear lingerie.

Bows and straps that fall in time with the condensation

or early morning mist masking the already-covered window. 

In case somebody sees, you say.

The way I smile makes you nervous, gives you warm-to-touch goosebumps. I don’t know what attracts me.

Perhaps, the lingering selfishness in sweat that seeps through skin

as we dance in perfect rhythm and share a bittersweet feeling of guilt

in the heart of your run down flat, where she told you about her day hours before. 

You tell me I taste a bit like gossip mixed with caramel;

sickly and addicting but too goddamn sweet to dismiss

and I wonder what she tastes like.

But I let you convince me she is out-of-date liquorice;

stale and lifeless and I decide not to mention that

I am probably worse.

The sun rises.

You throw back your head and I catch a glimpse of myself in your dirty mirror. 

I am dressed like a home wrecker. You tell me it suits me and I think I agree.

You feel my teeth in your skin and my breath on your shoulder,

like the first storm of the Summer.

And you forget her.

Image Credit: Elena Roselli 

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