words shaped like knives,
his stare never breaking
as he stabs me with them slow.
I've been here many times before.
He'll leave the blades behind
just so he can twist them later.
But then there’s a sick part of me
still wanting to believe him.
His laugh breaks the silence,
dry and disbelieving.
“You—Christ—Sonny… Since the second I met you, it’s been—fuck. It’s been this.” He slaps the back of his hand into his palm. “One hit after another.
“Every time I look at you.
“Every time you open your mouth.
“Hell, every fuckin’ breath outta you…”
His voice breaks. “It’s like the air in my lungs don’t know what the hell to do.”
He drags his gaze over the skyline, where dawn will soon creep in to bleed rust over glass towers.
“Y’know, you never asked me why I waited for you at Type. Most people would’ve.‘Why the fuck you waitin’ every night?’... all that. But you never did. Still haven’t.”
His grin’s small but all-knowing.
“Yeah, ‘cause you already know, Sonny.
“You already fuckin’ know.
“And you’re so goddamn sure of it you don’t even gotta ask.”
He presses his thumb against his bottom lip,
either to rub off his grin
or hold his next words in before they pour.
“And now you drop this on me?”
Grin fights its way back anyway.
“You sayin’ you don’t do this kind of thing.
“That no one gets this close to you.
“That it’s been years since you felt this way.
“But here you are, saying all this shit tome?”
