a cold front.

We climbed up the stairs and as it grew colder, he reached across nonchalantly to lightly press a chilled palm with curling fingers onto your thigh. The air crisp and clear, shivering in sweatshirts and taking single drags off borrowed cigarettes.

A polished thumb rubbed along my lower lip. Lost in thought, the mental scolding.

Rolled up sleeves and thin arms with a bottle of beer in hand, loosely rolled back and forth upon my knee. At points, like last night, the siren of the city beckons me to enter its grip. Every breath, like a drug, fills me with an anxious elation. Laughing in dim rooms and under radiant moonlight until the shrieks turn to hushed histories and the questions those beget. Pushing the hair back from our faces, seeing a lot in our eyes and I am thinking of you. I wonder if the words out of my mouth were true, or if I just said them foolishly and with a dramatic flourish. No fucking around.

I realize sometimes I really like who I am.

You are golden. I am pining.