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But I let you convince me she is out-of-date liquorice;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