Composure

I think we are drunk off of each other and the cool spring afternoon. Our lips may or may not feel like the prehistoric leaves I plucked unceremoniously off the low-slung trees. You shouldn’t use that word, inevitable, and I can barely see you in the blurred darkness. What happens between us is a chemical altercation in the air. What happens between us is my bed and the floor and the doorway and the sidewalk and the entire southern-bound direction of the FDR. And let me look at your fingers which may or may not feel unfair as we jerk around the back of a taxi. It is not nothing: It is a four-hour midnight and we are turning back.