as if sex doesn’t mean anything.
As if orgasms and goodbyes
aren’t the villains of my entire story.
Romeo’s hand slides to my hip,
spreading heat through the hoodie,
mouth on my neck (step four),
lips dragging along my throat.
His voice drips into me,
whispers sliding in my ear?—
“Then let’s get the fuck outta here.
“I’ve been dyin’ to get you alone.”
My pulse kicks,
slap-boxing my skin,
beggin’ me to run away from this.
But Andrew’s probably somewhere doing the same—back against a bar, mouth in some girl’s ear, feeding her filth, fingers on her hips, pretending she’s enough to forget I exist.
So I grab Romeo’s hand and yank him from the bar like it’s a pathetic race.
If I move fast enough,
I can erase Andrew before he erases me.
On the way to the check-in counter,
I see the Library Room.
Bookshelves. Dim lighting. Heavy silence.
I veer hard, ignoring the concierge,
grabbing the night by the throat.
Romeo trails me in, smiling filthy.
The door swings shut behind us,
and the floor stretches out.
Leather seats sag in shadows,
books climb the walls.
I turn and lean back against a bookshelf?—
same angle, same breathing pattern,
