You breathe smoke into me as I brush past you.
My nerves sing fire. I look away. You smile, waiting.
“I’m mad at you”, I say, twisting my hair around my fingers, wishing I could do the same to you.
“Why?”
“You don’t see me," I mouth, as I take in the frayed edges of your jeans, metallic glint of your belt, your veins playing havoc with your forearms and your headphones like heartstrings falling out of your shirt.
I don’t look at your face.
You step forward stealing your way under my skin. I flinch.
You raise your eyebrows, one scar slit, the other whole.You cup my chin with your guitar grazed fingers and as I fight my way out of your familiarity, you headhunt your way into my heart. Again.
“Don’t hide.”
Are you counting? ‘Ready or not, here I come!’ Say it,
It’s your turn.