After Hours

The thick, jet-black sky was teeming with stars,

each one twinkling to the beat of our hearts,

ba thump,

ba thump,

ba thump,

and danced when our hands trailed too close,

my frigid fingertips trailing across his hot palms,

trying timidly, feverishly, to reach equilibrium.

His tenacious coffee-brown eyes animated,

stirring at the very hint of my voice,

(a mere mouse squeak) as I looked away,

pawing at my arm, fidgeting my words

into mush in front of him,

letting them drop to the seat of the bench like 

unfortunate jelly spilled at a picnic,

sticky and clumped, indecipherable,

languorously trailing from my lips

and dripping downward

to the cool-grey concrete slabs

bolstering us up among the night.

It was tedious.

He knew it would be

as he beamed back,

still watching my words flow

like molasses, so dense and viscous

they never came.

He kissed me.

Had I expected it,

I might've stopped him,

tried to make it more artificial,

more methodical, contracted,

mechanical, but I didn't.

I couldn't.

The feeling pressed through me

like a current,

an electric shock pulsing,

refusing to stop until it hit my core,

reverberating through my chest,

forcing my eyes open.

Taking advantage of this moment

he teased, knowing I couldn't speak,

not then,

not now,

not after this;

when I looked back at him,

his gaze was much calmer,

more delicate,

and his laughter floated off

like feathers.

I kissed him.