to the old listening room,
to the nearest wall,
far from prying eyes,
far from reason,
far from anyone who could stop us.
It’s colder in the basement,
where the chill breathes against my skin,
brushes behind my knees,
and sneaks under my dress.
A wall of signatures looms at the back?—
black ink, silver paint,
red lipstick smudged across years.
It smells like old vinyl and smoke.
Feels like someone sang into the walls,
and left the emotion behind.
The red exit sign glows above the door,
casting a scrape across the floor.
The crimson glow from it
pools in Andrew’s navy eyes,
the color of blood dripping
into the deepest part of the ocean.
I can see him, but only in pieces.
Cheekbone under red.
Hands in shadow.
Those eyes—here, then gone.
Mouth, throat, nerves—half seen, all felt.
I fall back against the wall.
Andrew follows, falling into me.
No second thoughts, only gravity.
He slides off his jacket. It hits the floor.
