Creases

I feel

the way you watch

my mouth move

as you lean closer,

until my lips

almost brush

your ear.

So eager

to hear

what I say next,

careless

of what it is.

Your soft eyes

drift

across my chest.

The glitter

I'm wearing

tastes like gingerbread.

You don't know

that yet.

My thoughts

grow explicit.

I become

painfully aware

of the rise

and fall

of my breath.

The stranger beside us

smiles,

knowing,

then drunkenly

slides from his seat.

My skin tingles.

My laughter

rings out

like church bells.

Something sacred,

something dangerous.

I search

your face

for the answers

you won't give.

Your gaze

lingers,

a secret

kept only

by you.

Slow.

Deliberate.

It washes over me, and

suddenly

I can't stop imagining

your lips

finding

the hollow

of my collarbone.

You fold me

into the shape

of your future

like origami.

Each crease

a quiet decision.

We are

our own worst enemies,

our own loudest critics.

Still,

I sit

on the throne

at the edge

of your bed

and lace

my boots.

Tell me.

How fine

is the line

of the pen

you use

to write me off?

Don’t you know?

I still carry

your creases.